


Moulin Rouge

by clarkedarling



Series: film aus [1]
Category: The Greatest Showman (2017)
Genre: F/M, Love, Moulin Rouge AU, Star-crossed, because it fits so well!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-03
Updated: 2018-09-19
Packaged: 2019-06-01 13:50:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 30,151
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15144464
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clarkedarling/pseuds/clarkedarling
Summary: Phillip, a young writer with a magical gift for poetry, defies his bourgeois parents by moving to the bohemian underworld of New York. He is taken in by the whiskey-soaked artist Charles Stratton, whose party-hard life centers around the Barnum’s Circus, a world of sex, drugs, electricity and the shocking circus. Phillip falls into a passionate but ultimately doomed love affair with Anne, the Sparkling Diamond, the most beautiful courtesan in New York and star of Barnum’s Circus.or, a moulin rouge inspired story





	1. The Arrival in New York

**Author's Note:**

> OK, so I plan on doing a series of these film-inspired stories. I have Titanic, The Notebook, Pretty Woman and Dirty Dancing stories in the works too. They'll all be adapted to fit the storyline of Phillip and Anne's characters, so they won't all be exactly the same as the films.
> 
> I hope this doesn't flop.
> 
> Enjoy! Let me know what you think.

* * *

_New York, 1900_

From out of Phillip Carlyle’s window, he could see the crumbling remains of Barnum’s Circus. The building, which had once lit up the night, now stood barren and bare. Shaking his head, he was consumed with all the memories associated with that place; good and bad. The circus had been many things, though it was above all outrageous. Barnum’s Circus was synonymous with scandal.

He had tried for a year to put the place out of his mind, but had found it impossible - especially living a mere a few feet from it. Sat in front of his typewriter, Phillip had decided to channel his thoughts into his writing. Looking at the blank page, he wondered where to start. With a bittersweet smile, he shakily began to type the sentence; _“the greatest thing you’ll ever learn, is to be loved and be loved in return”_.

* * *

Phillip arrived in New York a year prior. Stepping off of the train, he had travelled from Columbus, Ohio just to drink in the sights and experiences of a city that promised all four things he valued above all else; freedom, beauty, truth and love. He wasn’t disappointed. A suitcase in one hand, and his hat in the other, he grinned as he walked out of the doors of the train station.

Having recently been disowned by his wealthy parents, he had barely a penny to his name, and struggled to find a hotel that would take the few coins he had. However, he was fortunate that he came across a landlady that took a fancy to his looks, and with the promise that he’d write her a poem or two, she let him rent out a room near the top of the hotel. Glad to finally feel independent, Phillip threw open the windows to his little room, and saw the infamous, glowing lights of Barnum’s Circus. Had he known back then what that place would grow to mean to him, he perhaps would have savoured the moment more.

Pulling out his typewriter - one of his only possessions - he racked his brain for something to write, though came up blank. Sighing, he prayed inspiration would strike. As though somebody heard his pleading, an unconscious Albanian fell through his ceiling. Jumping up, Phillip was stunned to say the least. Closely following the Albanian was a dwarf, dressed like a nun, with very decorative face paint.

“Don’t mind us, we’re just rehearsing a play,” the dwarf informed him, rather nonchalantly, as though it were nothing out of the ordinary. “My name is Charles Stratton.”

Phillip glanced up at the hole where the Albanian had crashed through, and he spotted four other men peering down at him. Each were as exotic as the other, and unlike anything Phillip had ever seen before. He couldn’t help but grin.

The dwarf tried to shake the Albanian awake, to no prevail. He sighed, and threw his hands up in the air. “It’s no use, he’s definitely out for the count this time,” he called up to the others.

Unfortunately, the Albanian, whose name was Prince Constantine, suffered from a disease called narcolepsy, where he could be completely mobile and fine one minute, and unconscious the next.

“Well, try harder! We need him to continue on with the show!” one of the men shouted back, with a tone of exasperation. “The role of the lonely goat herder isn’t going to play itself!"

Before Phillip knew what was happening, he felt five pairs of eyes glued to him and he was whisked upstairs into their apartment. The room was eclectic to say the least; there were contraptions and machines that he could never have imagined in his wildest dreams. He couldn’t help but grin. He was ushered onto a little platform where they placed an alpine hat atop of his head, and thrust a script into his hands. The set they had created replicated the Swiss mountains. Soon, they were all arguing about what lyric fitted best with the song, and Phillip couldn’t get a word in edgeways.

“The hills animate with the euphonious symphonies of descent!"

“The hills are vital, intoning the descent!"

“The hills are incarnate with symphonic melodies!"

All of the suggestions were awful, and every attempt he made to chip in was drowned out by the noise of Frank Lentini’s piano playing. Just like the others, Frank was unique in the fact that he had not two legs, but three. His extra appendage appeared to be working in his favour, as his unusual piano had been adapted to accommodate him, and the sound was certainly exceptional.

“The hills are alive with the sound of music!” Phillip sung out, finding it his last resort.

Everybody’s head turned his way, as his voice echoed out above all the others. From the looks on their faces, he feared he had done something wrong. Then they burst into a round of applause, and barraged him with compliments, and he felt a sensation of pride swoop through him.

Charles was the first to shake his hand. “That was wonderful!” he exclaimed. “It fits . . . magnificently!"

“With songs they have sung for a thousand years!” Phillip continued, and they all gasped.

“Why don’t you help to write the play! Oh, it would be fantastic!” Vasily agreed, a man over seven foot tall with a thick Russian accent.

However appreciative and accommodating the others were, the current playwright did not agree. In fact, he stormed out at the mere mention of sharing the spotlight, leaving Phillip behind with the rest of the cast. They didn’t seem to mind much that he had left; in truth, they expressed their dislike of him the moment his feet had left the threshold. They all demanded that Phillip take over, and when they discovered he was actually a writer, it only helped to seal the deal.

Clapping his hands together with delight, Charles beamed. Vasily patted Phillip on the back, sending him soaring forward. Constantine had awoken amidst all the chaos, and had been filled in by Frank, and welcomed the new writer with open arms. “What’s the show called?” Phillip asked, eyebrows knitted.

“ _Spectacular, Spectacular_!” they all chimed in.

Phillip chuckled. “And is it? Spectacular, I mean?"

“With you at the helm, I’m sure it will be,” Charles replied, charmingly. “Here’s to your first job in New York!"

Frank was wringing his hands together, his moustache twitching. “Have you ever written anything like this before?"

Phillip shook his head, honestly. He had written plays before, of course, but mostly for his own amusement. They had all been tragedies, nothing like this bohemian masterpiece his new friends seem to be wanting. Frank sighed, looking even more concerned.

“Nonsense!” Constantine cried out, his skin adorned with colourful inkings. “The boy has talent!"

Charles seemed to agree. “Stop fretting Frank,” he frowned. “With . . . what is your name?"

“Phillip Carlyle."

“With Phillip Carlyle’s help, we will surely write the revolutionary show we have always dreamed of!"

The three-legged man stepped forward, and Phillip found it hard not to stare. “Yes, but how will we convince Barnum? Will he wish to finance something that is being written by a complete - forgive the term - stiff-collared, prim-and-proper, inexperienced amateur?"

 _He certainly didn’t hold back,_ Phillip thought to himself.

Charles had a plan, however. The mischievous gleam in his eyes said so. “Anne Wheeler."

They were going to dress Phillip up in Constantine’s finest suit, and pass him off as a famous writer from London - this was settled when Phillip dazzled them all with his English accent. He was then to win Anne Wheeler, the most dazzling and talented dancer in Barnum’s Circus, over with his modern poetry, where she would then be so astounded that she would insist to Barnum to produce the show.

The only problem was that he kept hearing his father’s voice in his head; “You’ll end up wasting your life at Barnum’s Circus with some cancan dancer!"

Glancing back at the others, Phillip saw Charles thrusting a bottle of whiskey in his direction, and he felt a surge of nausea. He’d always had a weakness for liquor, and knew that he couldn’t go back down that route. Shaking his head, he tried to climb back down the ladder back into the safety of his own apartment.

“I can’t write the show!” he cried, anxiously.

Constantine scowled at him, and furrowed his eyebrows. “Why not?"

“I don’t even think that I’m a true bohemian revolutionary."

“Do you believe in beauty?” Charles piped up.

Phillip nodded. “Well, yes but - "

“Freedom?"

Again, he nodded.

“Truth?"

Once more, he nodded.

“Love?"

A smile spread out across his face, and he even felt his heart skip a little beat. “Love? Above all things, I believe in love! Love is like oxygen, love is a many-splendored thing, love lifts us up where we belong. All you need is love!"

Phillip feared that once more he had gone overboard, and gulped, waiting for somebody to say something. Then, they all cheered again, and hoisted him back up the ladder, and into the room.

“See, you’re the voice of the children of the revolution!” Constantine joked, as he began to pour out glasses of whiskey. “Let’s toast our new writer, and to the success of _'Spectacular, Spectacular!’_ "


	2. The Arrangement

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anne believes she is meeting a wealthy and influential Duke. Instead, however, she meets Phillip.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know it seems unrealistic to fall in love this fast, but it happens in the film so it happens here.
> 
> Also, sorry this is so late, I've been so busy with finishing college, and then I went on holiday, that I've had no time to write anything. I hope this chapter is worth the wait.
> 
> Thank you!

* * *

Phillip had fought off the many glasses of liquor handed his way, and whilst his new friends were somewhat soaked in alcohol, he had managed to stay completely sober - miraculously. They stumbled the short distance to Barnum’s Circus, with Phillip donning the smart suit. It was fitted, and it was dapper, and it made him look like an aristocrat - especially with his top hat.

The second they stepped inside, Phillip felt as though he had stumbled into a dream. He was as though he were Alice, and he had stumbled down the rabbit hole. Everything was bright and vibrant, people had different colour hair and dresses and make-up, unlike anything he had ever seen before. Girls were wearing hardly anything, their garters on full display every time they lifted their skirts. It made his mouth dry up, and he wasn’t sure where to look.

He had been with women before, of course. He was twenty-six years old. Back home, in Columbus, he had quite the reputation; it was one of the many, many reasons his parents disowned him. However, here surrounded by such unapologetic displays of female sexuality - and in some cases, male - he felt a little overwhelmed.

The Circus was unlike any circus he had been to before either. It was held in a ballroom-style building, with a grand chandelier and a dance floor. The acts were paraded about on show, in all their glory, for the guests, who were predominantly men, to marvel at. Dancers performed routines on the aforementioned dance floor, encouraging the men to join in.

Phillip found himself caught up in the middle of a dance, and not knowing what to do, merely froze until Constantine rescued him, chuckling heartily. He was seated at a booth in the corner, panting.

“Not enjoying yourself, Phillip?” Charles teased. He had a big grin on his face.

“Quite the opposite,” he retorted.

The group ordered more whiskey, to which Phillip declined yet another glass, settling for water instead. “So, what’s this Anne Wheeler like?"

They all eyed each other, smirking, before Constantine leant forward on his his elbows. “She’s not like any girl you’ve ever met before,” he told him, with a glint in his eye. “The things she can do with her body . . . "

Phillip gulped, and they all laughed at him. “She’s a trapeze artist and acrobat,” Frank pointed out, before Phillip’s mind could wander too far beyond the depths of his imagination.

“And Barnum’s star act,” Charles continued. “Which is why we need you to get her onboard, so she can convince Barnum to finance the show."

Nodding, Phillip understood the weight of what had been placed on his shoulders. If he couldn’t win Anne over, they would risk losing a producer for their play, and therefore their platform. He just hoped that Anne had a penchant for poetry.

All of a sudden, the room fell silent, as a voice echoed throughout. “This is the greatest show,” came the most angelic and powerful voice he had ever heard.

A spotlight shone on a figure emerging from the ceiling in a silver hoop. Phillip’s eyes widened, and his jaw dropped. Above them all was the most beautiful girl in the world, undoubtedly. She was spinning, her long legs stretched out in front of her. The girl was wearing a tight, purple leotard that sparkled in the light. Her hair was a bright, fuchsia pink, and it made him smile. Her skin was a soft cocoa colour that glowed.

Phillip knew in that moment that she had his heart.

“That's Anne Wheeler,” he heard Charles whisper into his ear.

A shiver went down his spine. He watched as she fell out of her hoop, the audience gasping and calling out to her, and jumped out of his seat. Then, she landed in the arms of some of the other acts below, and he breathed out a sigh of relief. It was clearly all part of the act. She continued to sing, and Phillip was entranced. Seeing the other men fawning and drooling over her felt like a bit of a kick in the teeth.

“You mean I have to convince her?” he muttered, his heart hammering away inside his chest.

Vasily smirked at him. Once again, Phillip gulped. Suddenly, what had been an already daunting task had become even more stressful.

* * *

It had become second nature, with Anne, performing to crowds of hundreds. The men were all the same; lewd, crude, and filled with an unquenched desire.

Barnum, their ringmaster, was a good man. He created the rule that the visitors can look, but they can’t touch. It helped Anne feel comfortable performing on stage. What happened off stage however, was a different story. She was a courtesan, one of the most sought-after in New York - perhaps even America - which meant that she was expected to do things most respectable ladies wouldn’t even dream of.

She didn’t blame anybody else but herself for her situation. Her and her brother, W. D., were orphaned from a young age. They had to survive, and Barnum gave them a home. Their skills on the trapeze were valued, considerably more than they would have been valued by some master in the South, and neither of them were never made to do anything they didn’t want to do. Then, when Anne reached the age of eighteen, she decided she wanted more. More freedom, more money, more respect. Her dream of becoming a real dancer wasn’t far off the horizon.

At twenty-one, she had the palm of New York in her hand. Barnum never made her do anything she didn’t want to do. His wife, Charity, made sure of that. She lived up to her name in every sense of the word. When Anne and W. D.’s apartment lease ended and they found themselves on the street once again, she convinced Barnum to rent them a room in the circus. This meant that they never had to worry about where they were going to live ever again.

Dressed in her favourite glittering purple leotard, Anne danced amongst the guests, as she slipped through their fingers. The ensemble dancers were hot on her heels, but she was the star. She was accustomed to the drooling stares from the men, all in their finery, throwing their money around. She didn’t particularly like it, but she did like the feel of the spotlight, so the unwanted eyes she put up with.

Barnum joined her on the stage, holding her hand up as the men cheered. The other dancers formed a circle around them, the cancan dancers lifting up their skirts, as the pair bent down so she could slip on some (fake) diamonds.

“You won’t believe what I’ve arranged for you tonight, Anne,” Barnum began, adjusting his red coat.

She cocked her head, curious.

“After this number, you’re to meet the Duke in your dressing room. Completely alone."

Anne gasped. “The Duke of Monroth?"

Everything she had dreamed of, everything she could possible hope for, could come true with the assistance of somebody like the Duke. He had the money, the power, and the social standing to give her what she wanted. She loved the circus, she loved the people in the circus; it was the only home she had ever known, and they were the only family she had ever known. However, Anne desired more. She wanted to be on bigger stages, travel the world, and earn respect. She dreamt of being on at the very top of the dizzying heights of society, not just sleeping with those on top.

“Where is he?” she asked, as the circle around them disappeared, and he presented her to the audience once more.

“See the man in the suit Stratton is waving his handkerchief at?” Barnum whispered, as he turned to face the other direction.

Peering through the crowd, Anne’s eyes fell upon a very handsome man. He had dark hair, and a sharp jawline. Even from across the room, she became entranced by his piercing blue eyes. He was rather young, and she wondered why he had need of a courtesan. She couldn’t see much from her vantage point, but saw enough to know that she was looking forward to spending some time alone with him.

Barnum switched places with her, flashing his winning smile at the crowd. “Is he to your liking, dear?"

“Does it matter what I think of him?” Anne muttered, her own beam never faltering. “It’s what he thinks of me that counts."

* * *

Wringing his hands together, Phillip was a bundle of nerves. He was waiting outside of Anne’s dressing room, and could barely contain his anxiety. On the other side of that door was a girl unlike anybody he had ever known. He was rehearsing what he was going to say, which verse he was going to recite, when the door swung open. Anne was stood in the doorway in nothing but a silk, black dressing robe. His jaw dropped, and he couldn’t help it; she was irresistible.

“I believe you have something for me?” she asked him, in an accent that sounded as though it had been dipped in honey. It was distinctly a New Orleans drawl, and it didn’t help his growing attraction for her. Her hair, freed from the pink wig, was a warm chocolate colour, and naturally curled down the nape of her neck. How he longed to run his fingers through her locks . . .

Phillip nodded, and stumbled into the room. She walked past him, looking him up and down, and lifted up a bottle of wine, an antique vintage. He was surprised she would waste such a delicacy on a penniless writer, an alcoholic one at that, but then looks were deceiving. “Would you care for a drink?"

Though he had been rejecting drinks all night, this was the hardest one to say no to. Anne didn’t seem to mind, setting back down one of the cups. “That’s alright,” she shrugged, before turning back to him. Her leg slipped out of her robe, and Phillip struggled to tear his eyes away. “Though I suppose you don’t mind if I have a glass?"

Phillip gulped, and couldn’t bring himself to look her in the eyes as he nodded. “I was told you like poetry?” he muttered, turning the statement into a question.

Daring to glance up, he saw Anne biting her lip, as she approached him. “Poetry? Oh yes, I adore poetry,” she replied, her voice the single most seductive thing he had ever heard. “Have you got some for me?"

The mischievous glint in her eyes glittered as she looked at him over a cup of cherry red wine. It made Phillip’s inside churn with butterflies. It took all he could to nod, fiddling with the sleeves on his shirt. His breath hitched in his throat as she stepped forward, her silk gown swaying at her sides. She encircled him, much like a predator would their prey, running her fingertips across his shoulders. A shiver coursed through him, and he cursed mentally when he saw that she had noticed the effect she had on him.

“Tongue-tied?” she whispered, bringing her lips close to his ear.

The second Anne withdrew from near him, he felt her absence keenly, as though he had been stripped of air from his lungs. She sat down on the bed, her legs dangerously far apart. Bare flesh on show, she was displaying no signs of timidness. On the contrary, she relished in his sheepishness. Her gown barely covering her modesty, Anne began to caress her cocoa coloured skin with the lightest of touches, all up her neck and décolletage. Phillip was clueless as to why she was behaving so oddly, so irresistibly, and tried not to become distracted. “You’re not going to make me wait all night, are you?” she asked, as she beckoned for him to join her on the bed.

Mustering all of his confidence, Phillip coughed, warming up his voice. “You know I want you,” he sung - he wasn’t sure why he chose to sing the words, he supposed they just rolled of his tongue better that way, sounded more poetic. “It’s not a secret I try to hide."

Anne stopped moving altogether, her eyes wide and mouth agape. He had her attention now, completely, and he hoped he didn’t crumble under the weight of it.

“I know you want me,” he continued, stepping forward ever so slightly. Emboldened by the entrancement he now had over Anne, he edged closer to her, watching her pulse flutter away in her neck, the same fast-paced speed his was. “So don’t keep saying our hands are tied. You claim it’s not in the cards, but fate is pulling you miles away and out of reach from me."

Her doe-eyes never leaving his, she got to her feet, hanging on to his every word. “But you’re here in my heart so who can stop me if I decide that you’re my destiny? What if we rewrite the stars? Say you were made to be mine. Nothing could keep us apart, you’d be the one I was meant to find."

Reaching out a hand, he took hers in his, and lead her to look out of the large window to gaze at the nights lights of New York. However, she was only interested in him, her expressive eyes watching as he sung to her.

“It’s up to you, and it’s up to me. No one can say what we get to be. So, why don’t we rewrite the stars? Maybe the world could be ours tonight?"

The last lyric tumbled out of his lips, barely a whisper. A soft smile graced Anne’s lips, as she placed both of her gentle hands on his chest, her warmth radiating off of her slender body. Phillip couldn’t resist stroking her face, grazing his thumb across her cheekbone, drinking in every sensation of her; how she smelt like lavenders, and how her skin was as soft as the silk gown she wore.

“I can’t believe it,” she muttered, her breath mingling with his as there faces were centimetres apart.

Grinning at her, Phillip snaked an arm around her waist. “What is it?"

“I’m in love,” she replied, the words filling him with such immense joy that he could hardly believe he had been so intimidated by the woman he now held in his arms only a few moments earlier. “I’m in love with a beautiful, talented, Duke! Not that titles matter of course, all I care about is that I love you."

Her words were so intoxicating that he almost missed the part where she called him a Duke. Through knitted eyebrows, he continued to smile. “I’m not a Duke,” he told her, wondering where she had gotten that notion from.

As sudden and unwelcome as a blast of icy wind, everything went horribly, horribly wrong.


	3. The Meeting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anne's meeting with the Duke goes horribly wrong.

* * *

“You’re not a duke?"

Anne felt nauseous. Her whole future, the one where she saw herself as a famed and highly sought-after actress, treading the boards on some of the most prestigious stages in the world, crumbled around her. The Duke that Barnum was supposed to have set her up with, the one that was going to make all her dreams come true with a wave of his hand, was not the man in front of her. Not the man her heart pined for, her lips craved, her body ached for.

She had thought she was the luckiest girl in the world the second her eyes had met the supposed-Duke's. He was kind, he was talented, and God was he handsome. She had hoped he was wealthy and titled too, which would have been the cherry on top of the cake. When he had sung his song for her, sparks flew and Anne was convinced she was in love. Now, looking back on the events that unfolded, she told herself that she was influenced by the suggestion he was rich. That she was only doing her job, to use her feminine charms to persuade men to part with their wallets, but deep down she knew it wasn’t true. She really was attracted to him, and she really did love him, as quickly as it had all happened.

“I’m a writer,” he admitted, as she hastily pulled herself away. If he was to hold her in those impressive arms of his any longer, she’d certainly do something she’d later regret.

“But you still have a title?” her voice was wary, harbouring a small shred of hope.

The man shook his head, furrowing his brows. “No, I’m just a writer . . . an aspiring writer,” he continued, not meeting her eyes. The English accent he had walked into the room with was starting to disappear, and a broad American one was in it’s place. Anne shuddered at the reveal. “My father’s the son of a Lord though."

Eyes lighting up, Anne stepped closer, beaming. “Oh!"

“But I’ve been disinherited, so that won’t apply to me."

“Oh."

Anne was torn between feeling betrayed by her own emotions and the fake English writer, and feeling guilty for behaving like such a gold-digger. It wasn’t that she only had eyes for wealthy men - it’s that she couldn’t afford to think about anyone else. She made her money by fooling the rich; she had to make sure they believed it. And it wasn’t just about the money, it was about everything else. She was able to sleep safely, to eat hot meals at night, to wear nice things. The career Barnum had given her, the career she had carefully carved out for herself, was her way of surviving, and her way of thriving. Whatever she felt for the man stood before her, it wasn’t worth throwing all that she had worked hard to achieve. Not if he wasn’t the Duke.

“Charles said - "

“Charles Stratton?” Anne exclaimed, as she paced around the room. She sub-consciously tugged the gown around her waist, and tied the belt. There was no need to seduce anyone anymore, not if he wasn’t going to pay for it. He nodded, and her heart sunk even lower. “Oh no, you’re not another one of Charles’s oh-so-talented, charmingly bohemian, tragically impoverished proteges."

“You could say that,” he replied, with an attempt at a half-smile.

She clasped her hand to her mouth, in an attempt to swallow a gasp. “No! I’m going to kill him!"

Anne didn’t know what was worse; being in love, or being in love with a penniless writer. “What about the Duke?"

Suddenly, in answer to her question, the door swung wide open. Fortunately, Barnum was stood in front of an unknown guest, allowing Anne enough time to hide the man underneath her bed, glaring at him, making him swear to silence.

In the doorway stood Barnum, his arm around an ageing and uptight-looking man, clad in a pristine tuxedo. The stranger had a pinched face, giving the impression that he smelt something awful. His hair was greasy, and slicked back, as though he had been caught in an oil spill. The second his beady eyes landed on Anne’s figure, her silk gown leaving little to his sordid imagination, a wide, sleazy grin stretched across his features, making Anne shiver.

“My dear Anne, I’d like to introduce you to the Duke of Monroth,” Barnum began, with a wide grin.

Sick and crestfallen, Anne couldn’t have been more disappointed with the way things had turned out. The real Duke was far older than she was, at least twenty-five years older, and much less appealing than the man she had previously thought to be the Duke. He also didn’t seem to be interested in poetry, instead more interested in what she had on underneath her robe.

“How wonderful of you to . . . take time out of your busy schedule to visit me, sir,” she told him, trying her best to seem alluring.

The Duke bowed his head ever-so slightly in her direction. “The pleasure, I fear, will be entirely mine, my sweet,” he drawled, his crisp English accent as slippery as his hair. Anne tried to disguise her shiver as a shimmy of her shoulders, plastering a false grin on her lips.

“I’ll leave you both to it,” Barnum muttered, disappearing out of the door, but not before shooting Anne a wink. _‘Make me proud’_ was what he was trying to tell her.

Trying hard to swallow her repulse at the Duke, she approached him, tugging his jacket off of his shoulders. She allowed her fingertips to brush the nape of his neck, and watched him shudder. Snaking a finger through one of his belt loops, she pulled him towards the bed. She tried to ignore the man underneath it and focus her mind on the task.

Anne slid her hand along her thigh, as the Duke began to drool a little. “Oh my,” he stuttered, his lip trembling.

“Can you help me with my gown?” Anne asked him, turning her back. As though he had been waiting for an excuse to touch her, the Duke eagerly did as she asked, slipping the silk fabric over her shoulders.

Spurred on by the lack of gown, the Duke took a moment to drink in the sight of Anne in nothing but her lingerie. His gaze was lecherous, and it was discomforting. Anne was used to the sorts of lustful looks men usually gave her, but after the man currently under her bed had stared at her with such passion and adoration, she felt cheap and worthless.

Hands running along her arms, the Duke laid Anne down on the sheets, keen to get inside her underwear. She found acting as though she wanted him as much as he clearly wanted her difficult. Her heart wasn’t in it. In fact, her heart belonged to somebody else.

Gritting her teeth, Anne tried to shake all thoughts of him from her head, and flipped the Duke so that he was underneath her. He relished in this action, as she started to kiss his neck. She had a job to do. She had money to earn. If she was going to accomplish everything she sought to, she had to convince the Duke that she was worth his time and his money.

As she began to strip him off his shirt, she caught a glimpse of somebody rustling out of the corner of her eyes. Chancing a look, she spotted the writer, glaring at her with such disdain. She felt suddenly guilty, and pulled herself off of the Duke immediately.

“What’s wrong?"

Anne reached for her gown, and pulled it on quickly. “You’re right, we should wait until opening night."

The writer smiled at her, whilst the Duke scowled. “I don’t remember saying that?” he questioned.

Pretending to be coy, Anne shook her head. “There’s something about you, something that intimidates me. You’re so . . . so powerful, so . . . strong.” As Anne fumbled to find more words, the Duke’s ego inflated. She couldn’t believe how gullible some men could be.

“You have to leave now, I don’t know if I can trust myself around you any longer,” she continued, pushing the Duke towards the door. She didn’t give him a moment’s notice to protest, slamming the door in his face.

Swivelling around, she slid down the door. The writer came out of his hiding place, smiling at her. Rushing towards Anne, he held her hands in his. She yanked free, and stepped away. “Do you know what would have happened if he had caught you?"

“You couldn’t go through with it,” was all he said, grinning. “You do love me."

Anne couldn’t ignore the blush that was creeping up on her cheeks. “Just because I wouldn’t sleep with a man who makes me gag, it must mean I’m madly in love with you?"

The man leant forward, and brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. She resisted the temptation to lean into his touch, losing herself in his icy blue eyes. His hand was warm, and soft, unlike many of the men she had shared a bed with previously.

The door swung open, and the Duke stood staring at the pair of them. His fists were tightened by his side, and he had a face like thunder. “Oh, I see,” he seethed. “You couldn’t trust yourself around me? I smell foul play."

Shaking her head at him, Anne backed away from the other man. “No, this isn’t what it looks like!"

“Isn’t it?"

“Duke, can I introduce you to our writer . . . um, Mr . . . "

“Phillip Carlyle,” he answered for her. Phillip Carlyle? That was a nice name. It matched his sweet temperament and kind eyes.

The Duke was clearly skeptical and unconvinced. "You expect me to believe that scantily clad, in the arms of another man, in the middle of the night, you were rehearsing?"

All of a sudden, as though they had been watching from the window, Charles Stratton and his band of bohemians burst through. “How’s the rehearsal going? Shall we take it from the top?"

Ignoring the invasion of privacy, Anne grinned at the new arrivals, and took the Duke by the hand. She led him into the middle of the circle, as the others began to prep themselves for the pretend rehearsal. To further convince the Duke, the group began a number from the play, named ‘The Greatest Show’. Barnum joined halfway, clearly checking up on what he had supposed was Anne and the Duke. He was roped into the performance too, though actually rather enjoyed the song and dance.

Afterwards, they all waited with baited breath for the Duke to say something. They weren’t disappointed.

“Generally . . . I liked it."


	4. The Truth Comes Out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Phillip goes to see Anne once more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This has definitely been my favourite chapter to write. I hope you enjoy it! What film au would you all want to read next?

* * *

Above Phillip’s apartment, he could hear the celebration part raging on. Frank’s piano playing was fast and jovial, and Constantine’s dancing feet were stomping on the floorboards, causing dust to rain down upon Phillip and his typewriter. Vasily’s drunken hollering was making his ears ring. He understood their need to shout their excitement from the rooftops, and in another circumstance he would have joined them, it was just all he could think about was her.

Anne Wheeler was a few hundred meters away, perhaps with another man. He understood that it was her profession, just as writing was his, but that didn’t mean he was any happier about it. He loved her, more than he knew it possible to to love somebody. It scared him, how quickly everything had happened. He’d gone into her room with an agenda; getting her to agree to _Spectacular, Spectacular!_ , not to fall head over heels for her.

All the romance novels he had read as a child suddenly made sense. Recalling the passages to mind, he felt a tingle down his spine. Love was everything like it was in the books, and nothing like it was in the books. Sure, your heart beats so fast you can’t hear anything, and your stomach is in knots, but usually it’s described as this pleasant feeling, as though these symptoms were made bearable by the love of someone else.

That wasn’t true. Phillip felt sick when he thought about how badly Anne had taken the news of him not being a Duke. Had she told him all those sweet things because it was part of her act, a twisted way of conning more money out of men? He was guilty thinking such things, but he couldn’t help it. She was a courtesan - the most famous one in New York. That had to mean she was rather excellent at her job.

Then he’d recall her eyes. Her warm, big brown eyes and how they’d softened when he had started singing to her. They’d held his gaze throughout the song, barely blinking. She seemed afraid to miss a single moment. He couldn’t imagine many men had ever sung to her, not from the way she reacted. Her touch, it was gentle, her fingers trembling slightly as if she was shy. That couldn’t be faked. The Duke, he went to her room for one thing only, and Anne knew that. It was why she had been dressed so . . . provocatively. Knowing what the Duke wanted, her touches wouldn’t have been so light and thoughtful. They’d have been lingering and inviting, working away at his buttons and belt. Instead she had held his hands and allowed him to lead her around the room. That wasn’t the confident temptress he had met those first few minutes in her room, before he had worked up the courage to sing. She was timid and vulnerable; it was impossible that she would let her _customers_ , for lack of a better word, see her in such a sensitive way.

Finally, he’d remember how she had beamed at him, and told him she was in love. She had sounded so breathless, as though she had been waiting her whole life to feel like that. Her smile had been genuine, he was certain. He had seen how she had smiled at the crowd during the show, how it had been all fluttering eyelashes and pouting lips. The smile she had given him, it was tender and affectionate.

Without a shred of doubt, he knew Anne loved him too, title or not.

Setting aside his typewriter, he pulled his coat off of his chair, and walked towards the door. He allowed his legs to carry him all the way back to the Moulin Rouge, where he climbed the thick and overgrown vines up to where he knew Anne’s window was. Holding his breath, he peered inside, praying that she was alone. He caught sight of a figure pacing the room, in a thicker and more modest robe on than the one she had on previously. Anne was clearly deep in thought, and Phillip was in two minds about interrupting her. Plucking up more nerve, he tapped on the glass with his knuckles.

Spinning around, wide-eyed, Anne was shocked. She hastily opened the window, her arms drawn across her chest. “What are you doing here?"

“I couldn’t sleep,” Phillip replied, clambering inside her room. A quick glance around revealed that the bed sheets were still neat, and there was no sign of anybody else. He released the breath he had been keeping in, out of relief. “I saw your light on."

“What?"

“I just mean, I wanted to thank you . . . for getting me the job,” he told her, with a wide grin.

She seemed distant, and it worried Phillip. If it wasn’t for the way her pulse sped up, evident in her neck, he would have presumed she truly had been pretending all along. He could see that he had an effect on her. “Oh, yes, of course. Charles was . . . he was right to choose you. You are . . . you’re very talented, Mr Carlyle."

Feeling his heart sink the second the name Mr Carlyle left her lips, he could feel his confidence cracking. He couldn’t think of anything to say, how to keep up a conversation he could tell was going nowhere. Anne’s mind was elsewhere, far from that little bedroom, and he wanted nothing more than to pull her back to reality. To wrap his arms around her, the way he had earlier that night.

“It’s going to be a wonderful show,” Anne finally said, politely. “But if you don’t mind, I really must be getting some sleep. I have to . . . we’re both going to have a big day tomorrow. You can see yourself out, can’t you?"

The way she was talking, she didn’t sound herself. She sounded withdrawn, too formal, and she was ignoring his gaze. It was as if the previous events had all been just a mere figment of his imagination, and this was their first meeting. She didn’t even look like herself, her usually bright eyes weary and her lips drawn tight. Her hair had been pulled back off her face, into a rather messy bun, and her face was free from cosmetics - she was even more beautiful without it all, Phillip thought.

As she turned to leave, Phillip found himself calling out to her.

“Wait! No please, wait,” he exclaimed. His tone was desperate, but he didn’t mind, and he was struggling to form the words. They were getting trapped in his throat, as he tried to find a way to say what he needed to. “Before, when we . . . when we were . . . when you thought I was the Duke . . . you said that - "

“That I loved you?” Phillip nodded, hopeful. “And you wondered if it was all an act?” He nodded again, searching her face for reassurance. None came. “Well, of course it was."

“Oh,” he choked. “I guess it just felt real."

Anne was taking pity on him, and that was somehow worse than when she could barely look at him. “Mr Carlyle, I’m a courtesan. I’m paid to make men believe what they want to believe. I wouldn’t be worth anything otherwise."

What an awful statement that was! _'I wouldn’t be worth anything otherwise’_. She couldn’t truly believe that about herself, that she was worth what other men decided? It made Phillip’s heart tighten, and he yearned to hold her. Promise her that he’d never make her feel so insignificant and inferior. If it was up to him, she’d be a Queen on a throne, everything she had ever wanted at her disposal.

“You’re worth a hundred of the Duke's,” Phillip blurted out. Anne’s lips parted in surprise, and she had frozen in her spot. “Worth a million of him, even. You’re not called the Sparkling Diamond for nothing. The Duke is just . . . a lump of coal in comparison."

Anne cracked a smile, briefly, before it slipped from her features. She suddenly seemed so young, and so fragile. Sadness swam in her eyes, but she managed to hold back the tears. “I can’t fall in love."

Did she mean she was physically incapable of opening her heart up to someone, or that she wouldn’t allow herself to fall in love? Or was it even that the Moulin Rouge forbade her from loving anyone, due to the nature of her profession? Too many possibilities buzzed about Phillip’s head that he had to shake it to focus his attentions.

“Can’t fall in love? But a life without love, that’s terrible! Unthinkable!"

“No, being on the street, that's terrible.” Anne’s exterior had toughened all at once, her eyebrows furrowed. She sounded as though she spoke from experience. Her New Orleans accent, which had been somewhat hidden when she had retreated into herself, was now thicker than ever. Images of a little Anne, frail and weak with hunger, begging in alleyways for scraps of food flooded Phillip’s mind. He felt nauseous. “A girl has got to eat."

Phillip reached out and closed the gap between them. His hands rested, gently, in Anne’s, his thumb brushing along her knuckles. He captured her gaze with his. “I know you want me,” he whispered, his words echoing the lyrics from the song he had sung for her earlier. A glimmer of recognition flickered in Anne’s chestnut eyes, but no smile graced her face. “So don’t keep saying our hands are tied."

Anne shied away from his touch, looking away, as she sat in front of her vanity mirror. “You think it’s easy?” she sang to him, in a voice so delicate and angelic that it could have been sent from Heaven. “You think I don’t want to run to you?"

His heart lurched into his chest as the lyrics tumbled from her soft lips. So she did want him. It would have been cause for celebration, given him justification to take Anne’s face in his and kiss her carefully and passionately and everything in-between, if she wasn’t appearing so melancholy. He could see her reflection in the mirror, and could see her lip trembling. “There are mountains, and there are doors that we can’t walk through,” she continued. “I know you’re wondering why, because we’re able to be just you and me within these walls."

Was she talking about how her job prevents her from having a real, meaningful relationship? Or perhaps was it deeper, and it had something to do with the colour of her skin. Phillip had never even considered how the outside world would take it, them being an interracial couple. While it was all the rage for prominent men in society to have a coloured ‘plaything’, someone they can brag about to their friends but keep well away from prying eyes, to even entertain the thought of marrying somebody of colour was inconceivable to them. The Duke merely wanted to seduce her, seeing her as nothing but a conquest. Whereas Phillip had intentions of marriage, it wouldn’t be legal, let alone socially accepted.

“But when we go outside, you’re gonna wake up and see that it was hopeless after all.” Her voice was raw now, the pretence of indifference stripped away as she bared her emotions to him. “No one can rewrite the stars. How can you say you’ll be mine? Everything keeps us apart, and . . . I’m not the one you were meant to find."

Rushing to her side, Phillip knelt down and took Anne’s face in his hands. He dabbed at her tears with his thumb, which were falling fast. They stared at one another for a long time, unsung lyrics crackling between them like electricity before a storm. Unable to help himself, he leant in and planted a soft kiss on her lips. She took a second to respond, but soon they were locked in an embrace that was both sweet and intense.

“I love you Phillip,” Anne muttered against his lips, her hands around his neck. “I love you, I love you, I love you."

Pecking her once more, Phillip smiled. “I love you so much,” he replied, before their lips touched again, this time more frenzied and desperate. Anne’s tongue begged entry into his mouth, as he pulled her off of her chair and into his lap on the floor. Her fingers were tangled in his locks, his own hands roaming her back. They were both trying to find a way to be as close to one another a possible, both physically and emotionally.

With no trouble at all, Phillip hoisted her body off of the floor, her legs wrapping themselves around his torso, as he carried her towards the bed. Laying her down gently, their lips broke apart as he knelt above her on the bed. Gazing down at Anne, he found himself falling deeper and deeper, her hair tugged free and sprawled across the pillow, her lips swollen, her eyes so full of love. He waited for her to make the next move, allowed her to make the next decision. Everything was entirely in her hands. He understood that because she was a courtesan, she was used to men throwing themselves on top of her, thinking only of themselves. He wanted her to know that he respected her, completely.

Biting her lip - not to be seductive, but instead out of nerves - she offered him a small smile. “I don’t know how to do this,” she confessed, somewhat bashfully. “I don’t know how to mean it."

Phillip tucked a lock of her hair behind her ear, and gave her his kindest, warmest smile. “There’s no money in the room. I’m here because I love you, and you love me. Anne, all you have to do is trust me."


	5. The Near Miss

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Duke almost catches Phillip and Anne in the act, and Barnum is forced to make a horrible decision.

* * *

“You’re gonna be bad for business, I can tell,” Anne whispered.

Phillip was sitting on her cobalt blue, velvet chaise lounge, Anne propped up in his lap. Her legs were either side of him, her fingertips grazing his jaw. Their lips were barely brushing, as they gazed at one another. She was entranced by his eyes, as blue as the ocean, and knew that she would forever be lost in them. Most days since that fateful night in her room had been spent like this, the pair of them locked in an embrace in some secluded spot. Anne knew what she was risking to spend time with Phillip, but she was drawn to him like a magnet. He was irresistible. When they were apart all she could think about was him, and when they were together her senses were consumed by him.

Smiling warmly, Phillip ran his hands across her back, pulling her as close as possible. The heat radiating off of them was palpable. Anne’s hair fell over her face, curls tickling their cheeks.

“How wonderful life is now you’re in the world,” he told her, his voice gentle and genuine.

Anne kissed him softly, wrapping her arms around his neck. “Nobody has ever made me feel as special as you do,” she said, her lips brushing his. “I’m so in love with you, Phil."

He kissed her back, passionately this time, along her jawline and down her neck. “I love you too, Anne. And I love it when you call me Phil.” She moaned with desire, her heart beating at a hundred miles an hour inside her chest. She knew that he could feel her pulse under his lips, and how hot her skin had become because of his touch, but she didn’t mind. She wanted him to know the effect he had over her.

The little room they were in was cosy, but certainly not private. Anne had to resist taking things any further with Phillip before they were caught. Not only would the results be disastrous, but it would cause a horrible scandal. Stroking his hair, she rested her forehead against his.

“We should get back to rehearsal,” she sighed, as though it physically pained her to pull away from him.

Lifting herself off of him, she fluffed her hair in front of the mirror, and adjusted her silk slip and shorts. Phillip placed his strong and capable arms around her waist, and planted a lingering kiss on her cheek. He grinned at her in the mirror, as she blushed. “Why do you look at me like that?"

“Because you’re the most beautiful, most kind-hearted, and most talented person I’ve ever met."

She turned around to kiss him again, feeling butterflies swarm in her stomach, when the door swung open. The Duke stood, oblivious to what had been going on between the playwright and the Sparkling Diamond, brandishing a picnic basket. The contents were some of New York’s finest delicacies, including artisan bread and luxury cheese.

“A picnic, my dear?” he asked, in that repugnant tone of his.

Anne glanced between the Duke and Phillip, wringing her hands nervously, trying to think of an excuse so that she could stay as far away from the awful and lecherous man as possible. She put on her absolute best performance to appear indifferent to Phillip, hoping her eyes wouldn’t give her away. W. D. would always tell her that she could be the best liar in the world, if everything she was thinking and feeling wouldn't reflect in her eyes.

“Oh, well I’m afraid there’s too much to do here . . . so much work,” she replied, shrugging apologetically. “Far too busy."

Out of the corner of her eyes, she could see his shirt sloppily buttoned and hanging out of his trousers, and his hair ruffled. She prayed that the Duke didn’t notice his shabby appearance, or at least couldn’t connect the dots. Fortunately, he was a rather dim man, whose intentions were as transparent as the bottle of champagne he was clutching.

The Duke didn’t like her answer, his pumpkin-like grin slipping from his greasy features. “But . . . but I thought we could . . . celebrate,” he stammered, clearly not used to not getting his own way. “The show is officially going ahead and . . . well, I thought that you would like . . . like to spend some time with me . . . alone."

Swallowing a rising wave of nausea, she tried to seem disappointed. “What a shame,” she sighed, as she began to usher the Duke out of the door. She intended to busy herself with rehearsal, so she could stand on stage and be safe from any of his advances. However, he was persistent. Desperate, even.

Stashing the bottle away in the basket, he snaked an arm around her waist, pulling her in tightly. She could smell his foul breath, and couldn’t help but flinch slightly. His fingers found bare flesh under the hem of her slip, and he gripped her so tightly that his nails dug sharply into her skin. Flicking his tongue out over his lips, he resembled a snake. “You are a tease, aren’t you? I had a taste of you the other night, and I’m hungry for more." He leaned in further, so that the coarse hairs of his moustache bristled against her cheek as he whispered into her ear. "Won’t you appease my appetite?”

Anne didn’t know what to do. She had frozen, torn between needing to act as though she desired him, and wanting to run a mile in the opposite direction. He was a foul man, but he was paying for the show. She had to keep up the pretence, no matter how much he repulsed her. “It's as I said we have too much to do. Too many lines to learn!”

Phillip came to her rescue, appearing by her side. “Anne is the star,” he confirmed, in perhaps a far too protective manner. His hand found it’s place on her shoulder and gently pulled her away from the Duke, and though she had shrugged it off, the damage had been done. The Duke narrowed his eyes at the playwright, suspicions forming in those beady eyes of his, as if he was suddenly putting two and two together.

“Are we still going to have supper tonight, dear Duke?” she asked suddenly, as seductively as she could muster. Her fingertips danced across his arm, coyly. She saw him shudder, and tried to ignore Phillip behind her. She wanted nothing more than to be back in that room with him, locked together with nothing but their kisses on her mind. Instead, she had to dig herself out of a hole that was growing larger by the minute. “More than one appetite will be satisfied then, I promise you."

The Duke’s eyes lit up, and he licked his lips again. “Until then,” he muttered, his voice hoarse. “I shall _eagerly_ await your presence."

He disappeared around the corner, picnic basket swinging in his hands, and Anne felt herself release a breath she hadn’t been aware she was holding. Phillip held her, soothing her with hushed tones. She could still feel his hands on her, feel his breath in her ear. It was awful, like the ghost of him haunted her. Her chest felt heavy, as though all the air had been sucked from it, and she felt suddenly very cold, goosebumps forming all over her skin.

“I don’t feel very well,” she muttered, her knees weak. As she spoke the words, she crumbled, Phillip catching her with ease. Holding her to his chest, one arm under her neck, the other under her thighs, she felt weightless, just like she did in her hoop. Glancing up with heavy eyes, she could make out the kind face of Phillip, worry etched into his handsome features.

That was the last thing she could remember, before slipping into a turbulent slumber.

* * *

The Duke slammed his hand against the table, a deed to the Moulin Rouge lying between him and Barnum. He was seething, his face blotchy and teeth gritted. The picnic basket was discarded in the corner of the room, it’s contents untouched. Barnum’s eyes kept flitting between the basket, and the deed on the table. He had every intention to take the basket back home to his wife and two children if the Duke forgot it, knowing that they’d relish such a feast in comparison to the Duke, who would merely consider it a snack after his four course meals in his mansion.

“The conversion of the Moulin Rouge will cost me an eye-watering sum of money,” the Duke spat. “In return, I demand your assurance Barnum."

Barnum furrowed his brow, his eyes raking over the deed. “So, you want me to sign over the rights to this place?"

"Anne must be bound to me,” the Duke told him. His tone was possessive, and it made Barnum uneasy. “I require security that she will fulfil her obligations to me. The Moulin Rouge is something you both hold dear. The thought that I could snatch it out from under your feet whenever I desire will be motivation enough for you to do your jobs."

The aforementioned deed that the Duke had brought with him was in fact a contract, drawn up by his big-wig lawyers from the city, that would sign over all rights to the Moulin Rouge to him if Anne did not _'fulfil her obligations to him'_. That meant sex, Barnum knew that. It was a hard pill to swallow. He adored Anne, loved her like a daughter - his own daughters considered her to be an older sister. However, it was a business; _his business_. She was fully aware what she was employed to do, she had carried it out plenty of times before.

The Duke was different. He was sinister, he was powerful. When Anne was first debuted, Barnum was very cautious about which men got to spend time alone with her. Usually, they were inexperienced sons of Wall Street bankers, looking for something to brag to their friends about at the country clubs. Then, as she became more sought after and skilled, he began to allow older men share her bed. They were always men that were quiet, timid even, perhaps widowed. She had never been in the company of somebody such as the Duke before. The darkness in his eyes scared Barnum; he shuddered to consider about what Anne thought about him.

“Miss Wheeler only has eyes for you - "

“I am not that naive, Barnum!” the Duke hissed, shaking his head. “I shall hold the deeds to the Moulin Rouge. If there are any . . . shenanigans, my manservant Warner will deal with it in the only language you underworld show folk understand. Anne will be mine. It’s not that I’m a jealous man . . . "

He sounded doubtful, as though he was skeptical about something. Phillip Carlyle sprung to mind, and the way in which he looked at Anne. Barnum wouldn’t have much cause to worry, if he hadn’t seen Anne look at Phillip the same way. She was young, and unfamiliar to the inner workings of the heart. It was only natural that she would be swept away by the good-looking and talented writer. However, it could cost them all everything. She had to be more careful. Barnum made a mental note to have a word with her about the matter.

“You have nothing to be jealous about, Duke. The playwright is no threat to a man such as yourself."

Immediately, as the words tumbled out of his lips, he regretted ever uttering them. All he seemed to have done is confirm the Duke’s deepest fears.

“I don’t like other people touching my things!” he roared, jumping out of his seat. Outstretching a bony finger, he gestured to the deed. “Sign this, or you can kiss your silly little Moulin Rouge goodbye. And make sure Anne comes to me tonight, in the Gothic Tower."

With that, the Duke fled the room, muttering to himself as he descended the stairs. Barnum suddenly felt as though he had fallen into a trap, and as his pen trailed across the deed, a shiver wen down his spine, as though he had signed his own death warrant.


	6. The Supper

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anne and Phillip are spotted, and her illness takes a turn for the worst.

* * *

Anne sat beside the Duke, the pair of them watching the actors and dancers on stage, practising the first act of the play. Every now and then Anne’s eyes would flit toward where Phillip was perched, next to Frank at the piano. He was directing the action, a script in one hand and a pencil in the other, rewriting lines where he saw fit. He would occasionally look up over his paper, and at Anne. He didn’t have to say anything, the glint in his eyes did all the talking.

Biting her lip, she suppressed a smile, and turned her attention back to the play. The Duke was surprisingly interested in the show, watching with keen eyes. However, he did begin to inch his chair closer to Anne’s, and ‘accidentally’ brushed her hand with his. She flinched and looked up at him, and gave her best brilliant smile. “How are you finding the show?” she asked him, politely.

The Duke disregarded her question, and pursed his lips together. “I’ve organised a special supper in the Gothic Tower tonight,” he drawled, making no attempt at being discreet about looking her up and down. She was still wearing her practise clothes, which left little flesh covered. “For just the two of us."

“The Gothic Tower? That’s very . . . "

“Romantic?” the Duke finished, with a lascivious smile. “I have been known to be quite the ladies man."

Romantic wasn’t exactly the word she was searching for, but didn’t bother to correct him. She doubted that the Duke was in fact a ladies man too, but again kept that too herself. She merely smiled once more, and crossed her arms. Didn’t he have a job? A life outside of leering at her? Or did he intend on lingering around the theatre until he had gotten his money’s worth out of her.

All of a sudden, Phillip was stood in front of her, trying to appear as businesslike as possible. “Miss Wheeler, I haven’t quite finished writing that new scene,” he began, in an unsteady voice. She knew that it meant he was trying to think up an excuse to see her, but it came across as though he were nervous. “You know the, um, the “Will the Lover Be Meeting at the Sitar Player’s Humble Abode?” scene. I wondered if . . . if I could possibly work on it with you, um, later tonight?"

Grateful for the pretext to avoid spending the evening with the Duke in the thoroughly spooky Gothic Tower, she hid her relief well. However, the Duke wasn’t going to give up so easily.

“But my dear, I have that special supper planned, remember?” he spluttered.

Frowning, Phillip hung his head. “It’s not that important, we could work on it tomorrow - "

“How dare you!” Anne exclaimed, attracting the attention of everybody. She jumped up from her chair, arms still crossed, as her mouth hung open. “It cannot wait until tomorrow! It’s the most important scene in the whole production, it will not be dismissed! We will work on it until I am completely satisfied."

The Duke reached out and grabbed her wrist, jerking her downwards. “But . . . but . . . "

Freeing her hand from his grip, she took a deep breath. “Excuse me."

She took the script from Phillip’s hands in the pretence that she was finding the scene to rehearse, and barked for him to follow. He shrugged at the Duke, apologising, though not looking in the least bit sorry. Anne could have slapped him for that, but instead smirked to herself. She slipped behind the curtains, where she knew they would be alone, and waited for him to follow. When she saw his figure, she pulled him close, craving his touch. They kissed passionately, as she leant against a prop of the Taj Mahal. Then he broke away from her, though kept his hands on her cheeks.

“Are you sure you’re fine?"

Phillip stroked Anne’s hair from her face. Everybody was on stage, practising their lines, leaving the pair some time to themselves. He was still concerned about her, despite her protests. After she had fallen unconscious, he had taken her back to their secluded little spot to recover, when she had woken up and promised that she had merely fainted after being in such disgusting proximity to the Duke.

“Yes, I’m alright Phil,” she smiled, ignoring the pounding in her head and the aching in her chest. It was a passing episode, something she would get over with a good night’s sleep. She didn’t want Phillip to worry. “I just went dizzy. Really, I’m ok."

Not thoroughly convinced, he sighed, and kissed her cheek. His lips were cool against her burning cheeks, and she closed her eyes to the sensation. Wrapping her arms around his waist, she buried her face into the crook of her neck. She wanted nothing more than to forget all about rehearsal and take Phillip up to her room, where they could lose themselves to one another. However, the spotlight beckoned.

“Can you meet me at mine tonight?” he inquired, his voice as gentle as his touch.

Anne smiled, running her hands across his cheek, the other place on his chest. He was wearing a pristine undershirt, his white button-up open, so that his broad chest was on display. He felt so solid, so strong, that she couldn’t help but be at ease in his presence. Feel safe.

She nodded, gazing into his piercing blue eyes. He was such a beautiful man, with his sharp bone structure and kind smile. She wondered if she would ever be able to say no to him. “Yes, yes I’ll meet you,” she told him, giggling ever so slightly. The dazzling grin he gave her was charming.

“What time?” he sounded excited, like a dog when it gets to play. She wouldn’t be surprised if he had a wagging tail too.

Anne laughed again, as she brushed her thumb across his lips. “Eight o’clock?” she suggested. It was too far away, she knew that, and wanted it to be sooner, but it was as early as she would be able to slip away. Barnum usually went home to his family around that time, so she would be free to go to Phillip’s.

“Promise?” he asked.

She kissed him. “Yes, I promise,” she whispered against his lips.

Suddenly, she heard a loud crash, and saw that the curtain had been opened at some point, leaving a slither of light spilling backstage. With a thumping heart she wondered if anybody could see them. She pulled herself out of Phillip’s grasp, and adjusted his shirt for him. “Go, I’ll see you then."

Not a few minutes after Phillip had left, Barnum stepped through the opening in the curtain, with a face like thunder. “Are you mad?” he hissed. “The Duke has the deeds to the Moulin Rouge. He’s spending a fortune, on you. He’s bought you a new dress, a beautiful yellow one - "

“I don’t like yellow,” Anne interrupted, trying to seem calm, when inside her stomach was churning. She sounded like a petulant child.

“He wants to make you a star!” Barnum continued, his voice stern and abrasive. “And you’re dallying with the writer?"

Anne rolled her eyes. “Don’t be ridiculous, we aren’t - "

“I saw you!"

Her heart sunk, and she looked down at her feet. She didn’t know what to say. She didn’t want to disappoint Barnum. “It’s nothing,” she lied. It hurt to dismiss her relationship with Phillip, not when she knew how strongly she felt about him. However she knew only admitting her true feelings would land them both in further trouble. “It’s just an infatuation. Really, it’s . . . it's nothing."

“The ‘infatuation' will end. Go to him, tell him it’s over. The Duke is expecting you in the tower at eight o’clock. Don’t let me down."

Anne felt the tears threaten to spill from her eyes, and came over all faint again. Was it down to the choice she had to make, or was it something else? She felt sick and her bones ached, though that could just be the weight of her responsibility. She didn’t want to leave Phillip, she didn’t think that she would be able to. The Duke was a frightfully forward man, and she feared what would happen if she spent a second alone with him.

She began coughing, a wave rising up in her throat, and she couldn’t stop it. Barnum dropped the overbearing act, and became instantly concerned. The coughs were hacking, and hurt. When droplets of blood appeared on Anne’s hand, and on the corner of her mouth, she saw the fear in Barnum’s eyes. He called out for her brother, who was adjusting the lights further down the corridor. W. D. bound towards her, hoisting her up before she fell to the floor, white dots swimming in her vision.

“What’s happening to me?” she croaked out, before everything went black.


	7. The Diagnosis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Barnum has to lie to save the show, whilst Anne is left fighting for her life.

* * *

Anne looked so frail, so delicate. Under her eyes were hollow, and beads of sweat peppered her caramel colour skin. Barnum had ushered the playwright out of the room as soon as he could, disallowing him from seeing her in such a state. He couldn’t have the poor boy worrying, telling God knows who about her illness. The Moulin Rouge, or Barnum’s reputation, couldn’t afford such rumours.

W. D., her older brother, was sat by her bedside. He was holding Anne’s hand, stroking her hair off her face. “What’s wrong with her?” he finally asked, in a quiet and timid voice. It was as though he was scared to hear the answer.

It was heartbreaking, to see the siblings brought together in such a terrible time. The scene in front of him reminded Barnum of how he came to meet the pair, in an alley just off Broadway. W. D. was huddled over Anne, holding her hand and trying to get her to eat a stale knob of bread. They were half-starved, all skin and bones. Anne was barely nine years old, but looked much younger, her face thin and weary. For change they would sing and dance, though due to the colour of their skin they were mostly ignored. W. D. had been stealing food for them, but it was getting to be rather dangerous. When Barnum had asked them about their parents neither of them could say anything. It was only until a few years ago that he discovered they had been brought up in an orphanage, without an inkling as to who their parents were, and that they had runaway when they were going to be spilt up and sent to different houses.

Thirteen years he had known them. Thirteen years he had raised them. He had thought he had given them a better life, a meaningful one, in the Moulin Rouge. Somewhere they could sing and dance, working for their meals, always having a place to rest their heads. Looking at Anne now, overcome with sickness, he couldn’t help but think that he hadn’t done them any justice taking them in, only for things to end up exactly how they would have if they’d been left on the streets.

“I can’t say,” he sighed, shaking his head. He could only assume the worst, but didn’t want to say it out loud. “I’ll send for a doctor as soon as I can. But first, I must go and tell the Duke she is . . . _indisposed_ at the moment."

Turning and leaving immediately, he let out a deep breath. It was too much for him to bear, what with Anne’s illness and all that could go down with it. The funding from the Duke, the show, the Moulin Rouge. Everything could be whipped out from underneath Barnum’s feet if she didn’t recover, and swiftly.

By the time he had reached the Gothic Tower, he had composed a well-crafted excuse to feed the Duke. Glancing around the room, he saw that the Duke had gone to great lengths to make the evening as special as possible. There was a long, fancifully-laid dining table in the centre, two mahogany chairs facing each other at opposite ends. Dozens of candlesticks had been lit all around, and somehow only made the room look even more eery. Waiters were stood formally, polished silver platters in their hands carrying an array of assorted meats and vegetables and sauces. A mountain high pile of strawberries were in the middle of the table, which Barnum supposed were for dessert.

What caught his eye, however, was the bed in the corner of the room. A lavish four-poster, the drapes were a crushed velvet, and the sheets a matching scarlet satin. Rose petals had even been scattered on the pillows. Barnum suspected that the effort was more for the Duke’s sake than Anne’s; he was a man of expensive tastes, and this undoubtedly stretched into every aspect of his life.

“Barnum? What are you doing here? Where’s Miss Wheeler?” the Duke demanded, jumping up from his seat at the table. The candlelight did nothing for his complexion, only making him seem older and uglier. Clearly he had been hoping that the grandeur of the room would make up for the fact that he still resembled a snake, with oily hair and a pinched face.

“She’s confessing, dear Duke,” Barnum lied, clasping his hands together.

The Duke made a face of dubiousness, eyebrows furrowed. “Confessing? What kind of an imbecile do you take me for?"

Shaking his head, Barnum prayed that he was indeed a rather large imbecile. “Miss Wheeler suddenly had a burning desire to visit with a priest, and confess all her sins.” When the Duke showed more signs of skepticism, Barnum pressed on. “She wanted to be cleansed of her former life, you see. She thought of tonight as her wedding night."

Colour was rising in the Duke’s cheeks now as it suddenly became clear what Barnum was implying. His moustache twitched as he concealed a sleazy grin, and licked his lips. “Wedding night, eh?"

“Yes, her wedding night,” Barnum nodded. Apparently all the money in the world didn’t guarantee you brains. “She’s like a brushing bride, all aquiver with nerves. Says you make her feel like . . . a virgin.” The Duke gulped, and adjusted his collar. “'Touched for the very first time' were her words. She says that it feels so good inside when you hold her, when you touch her."

The Duke was a vain man, and lapping up Barnum’s every word. “She does seem flustered around me. A though I intimidate her."

 _Anne’s disgusted by you_ , Barnum thought. He knew that she disliked most of the men she had been with, and the ones she disliked she loathed. Seeing her around the writer, he had realised that Anne didn’t want somebody to look after her, somebody to spoil her, somebody to lust after her; she just wanted love. Love was the only thing all the other men, including the Duke, couldn’t offer. All except Phillip Carlyle.

“So you understand then? She is ashamed of her past, and wants to lie with you a new woman,” he continued, desperate for the conversation to be over so he could return to Anne’s bedside, with a doctor. “All Miss Wheeler asks of you is to wait just a little longer."

At this suggestion, the Duke appeared a little frustrated. “I’ve waited far too long already, Barnum."

Reaching out, Barnum placed a hand on his shoulder, and gave him his most dazzling grin. “Trust me, Duke, it will all be worth it."

* * *

Eight o’clock had passed, and Anne was nowhere to be seen.

Phillip felt anxious, but afforded her the benefit of the doubt. He waited, and waited, until the clock had struck nine, and then ten, and then eleven. When the hands on the clock met at midnight, he was overcome with paranoia. Where could she be? Had she forgotten? Had she been caught up in rehearsal? It was unlike Anne to be late, not without sending a message or warning. Had Barnum caught her sneaking out? That would make sense, he had expressed his disapproval of their relationship plenty of times.

Personally, Phillip couldn’t understand why Barnum was so against the pair of them being together. He clearly loved Anne like a daughter - an odd thing in their profession, but the care and concern he showed for her was undeniable. Surely he should be glad that she had found somebody who loved her? Not for the body she had to offer, but for everything inside her. Her generosity, her compassion, her kindness, her warmth. For somebody who had to grow up quite quickly, hardened by the world around her, she truly was quite soft.

Innocence exuded Anne when they were alone. The way she would blush when he would compliment her, as though she wasn’t accustomed to hearing such lovely things about herself, or believed them. Or the way she would curl her toes when he kissed her cheek, as if that simple act was just as pleasurable as sex for her. Or the way she would pull the covers around herself in the morning, as though she were embarrassed for him to see her naked body. Or the way she would sing gently to him in the rare moments they drifted off to sleep together, as if she was signing a lullaby to a loved one.

Anne was unlike anyone he knew, or ever would know. He was certain he was one of the few people she could open herself up to, be vulnerable around, which in her line of work was not only dangerous but foolish. It was no surprise to both of them that Anne was afraid to get her heart broken by him, thus her reluctance when it was revealed he wasn’t a wealthy Duke, but it was Phillip that was the most scared.

She earned her money by sleeping with other men. He didn’t discriminate her for it, or ever hold it against her. He understood why, knowing where she had come from. The orphanage was rough, but homelessness was rougher. The prospect of scrambling around on the streets for money and food again terrified her. He couldn’t imagine the horrors her and her brother had witnessed. However, she had him now. He loved her, he intended to marry her. He could take her far away from the Moulin Rouge, where she would never have to sell herself to anybody ever again. She could have Phillip’s body, and heart, for free.

Due to the show, usual nighttime activities, such as the can-can dancers and men with wallets to empty, were put on hold. That meant she hadn’t been with anybody since she had met Phillip. He remembered the night she had nearly slept with the Duke, where he had seen everything from under the bed. It had made him feel sick, to see the Duke’s hands all over her. She was clearly uncomfortable, but the Duke was oblivious to her uneasiness. He couldn’t help but wonder, when he was awake in the early hours of the morning by himself, if it had always been like that. Men relishing in the delights Anne’s body offered, and her lying there and having to pretend to enjoy it all.

What an awful thought. She didn’t deserve that, any of it. The others didn’t deserve her either. Her past was one of the main reasons Phillip wanted to work everyday to prove he was worthy of her, to prove that _he deserved her_. He adored giving her pleasure, knowing that she had been starved of it for so long.

Glancing over at his bedside table, he saw that the clock read one o’clock. She was five hours late. This was very unlike her. Even if she had been held up by Barnum, she would have found a way to let him know, sending Lettie along with a message for him.

That was when a horrible, horrible idea struck him. Paranoia sunk into his every fibre, and he shot up in bed. _Could she be with the Duke?_

* * *

“What do you mean she's dying?"

W. D.’s heart had leapt into his throat. He couldn’t bring himself to look at Anne, her hand cold in his as if she had already passed on. Meeting Barnum’s eyes he knew they were thinking the same thing; it was as though she was that little girl in the alleyway, her life seeping out of her. Nothing made sense. She had three meals a day, a warm bed, and exercised often. There was no possible way she could be ill.

The doctor looked solemn, though not shocked. He must have patients who died everyday; what was another one to him? He proceed to pull out a needle, an unidentifiable liquid swimming in the syringe, as he held out Anne’s arm. Forcing himself to watch, W. D. saw as the doctor plunged the tip into the crevice in her arm, and sink the fluids inside. He winced, though she barely stirred, still fast asleep.

“I’m afraid so,” the doctor replied, satisfied with the treatment he administered. “She’s got consumption."

Lettie was hovering in the corner of the room, and hadn’t uttered a single word. However, she worked up enough courage to ask the doctor a question. “Consumption?"

“Tuberculosis,” he corrected. “It’s incurable. I’m sorry."

The air in the room suddenly felt as though it had all been sucked out. Lettie had tears streaming down her face as she covered her mouth to stop the sobs from coming out. Barnum looked faint, and held onto the bed railing to steady himself. W. D. was numb, as though everything that was happening was in fact happening to somebody else. It wasn’t possible, she couldn’t die. She was all he had left, the only thing left of their mother. He wouldn’t let her die.

Tears were falling before he could stop them, as he placed his head on Anne’s stomach, a poor attempt to keep her anchored. Those in the room gave him some privacy, congregating around the door, turning their backs on the siblings. However, he could still hear everything they were saying, their whispers travelling over to his ears.

“How long has she got?” Barnum asked, his voice hoarse.

The doctor shrugged. “Hard to say,” he answered. “Some patients barely last more than a few hours after diagnosis, some hold on for months. It’s not pleasant though. I say those that go the quickest endure the least pain."

W. D. nearly choked. He either had less than a day left with his only sister, his little sister, or a couple more months, which would be agonising and excruciating for her. He wasn’t sure what was worse; her just leaving without him being able to say goodbye, or her suffering for longer. She was still so young, only twenty-two. She had barely lived, seen none of the world. She never got to be a mother, and he knew that she wanted nothing more than to have a family. She had confessed to him her desires shortly after meeting the playwright, Phillip Carlyle, unable to suppress her happiness. She was convinced she had found her happy ending.

Anne couldn’t die like this. Somebody should send for Phillip.

“Lettie, she mustn’t find out,” he heard Barnum mutter. “The show must go on."

 _The show must go on._ Was some stupid show more important than Anne’s life?


	8. The Secret Song

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Phillip's jealousy threatens to get the better of him.

* * *

For the first time in his life, Phillip felt the cold stab of jealousy.

He was pacing back and forth, whilst Anne was sprawled out across his bed, the sheets twisted under her long limbs. She was wearing a simple cream coloured dress, and a beloved shawl of hers. Her curls were free, and fell about her soft face. She held fresh pages of song lyrics in her hands, her doe eyes scanning the words fervently. He had spent all morning noting them down on his typewriter, after no sleep. He was sure the bags under his eyes, but she hadn’t said anything. Truth be told, she looked a little worse for wear, as though she had been up all night too.

“Where were you last night?” His curiosity had gotten the better of him, and he couldn’t stop the words from rolling off of his tongue.

Refusing to meet his eyes, Anne hesitated before answering. “I told you, I felt a little under the weather again.”

Phillip sighed, and sat down next to her. He thought it was obvious that she was concealing the truth from him. He took her hands in his, brushing his thumb across her knuckles. “You don’t have to lie to me.” _I know you were with him,_ he wanted to add.

For a split second, Anne looked guilt, as she hung her head. Then, Queen of Pretend as she was, she composed herself and pulled her hands free from his grasp. “We have to end this,” she told him, in a voice that was cold and hardened. Again, she couldn’t look at him. “Barnum knows. Everyone knows. Sooner or later the Duke will find out."

Phillip felt like he’d been slapped across the face. He swivelled around on the bed so that he had his back to her. It was as though he were reliving that night in her room all those weeks ago. The one where she dismissed him in favour of the Duke. Had turned him away, revealed that everything she had told him was a lie, a ruse because she had thought him to be someone else. Although, she had only been saying those things to protect herself. Could that be what she was doing now? Closing herself off to him, closing her heart off, because she was afraid?

“You don’t mean it - "

“On opening night I have to sleep with the Duke,” she continued, in that same stony voice. Every word was like an arrow to the chest for Phillip. He didn’t want to hear anymore, but Anne kept going. “I have to Phillip, and it’s going to drive you mad.”

He felt the weight on the bed shift, as she got up and walked over to his little window. The moment he felt her absence, he jumped up and turned to face her. “You don’t have to,” he said, firmly. “Not if you love me.” At this he saw her gulp and the tension in her harden. She shook her head, her hands gripping the windowsill so tightly her knuckles were white. It spurred him on, as he approached her slowly. In a gentler voice, he spoke; “Don’t sleep with him."

“You can’t ask that of me.” She sounded on the verge of tears, her steely exterior crumbling.

“Is that because you’ve already slept with him?"

Whipping around, Anne looked stunned, as her mouth hung open. “Of course I haven’t,” she replied, and he couldn’t help but believe her. She was so clearly conflicted about the situation, as she fought the sob that rose in her throat. “Do you think I would be here now if I’d gone behind your back with that . . . that pig of a man?"

As she answered him, he realised how foolish he had been. How quick he had been to assume the worst. He held Anne in an embrace, her head falling on his shoulder. He ran a hand over her hair, a few locks getting tangled in his fingers. “I’m sorry,” he muttered.

After a while, Anne pulled back, and wiped at her eyes with the back of her hand. She didn’t want him to see her cry, and it broke his heart to know that. “You have to understand, Phil, on opening night I . . . I have to . . . " She couldn’t finish her sentence. The words were quite literally making her gag. Shaking her head, she swallowed, her mouth dry. “We have to stop seeing one another. I don’t want it to feel like I’m betraying you. I don’t want you to look at me differently, as though I disgust you."

Phillip reached out and caressed her cheek, trying his best to appear held together, when really his insides were churning and his heart was thumping erratically. “Nothing you could do will ever make me stop loving you,” he told her, softly. “I promise, I won’t be jealous.” As he said it, he wondered how much he meant it.

She beamed, a small smile that was more sad than anything, but it was a smile all the same. Her eyes, big and bright, were lost in his, and she leaned into his touch. Her hands found their place on his chest as he kissed her. It was gentle, and it was safe, as though they were both worried about scaring the other one off.

“I have an idea,” he finally said, a lightbulb going off in his head. “I’ll write a song. We’ll put it in the show, and no matter how bad things get or whatever happens, whenever you hear it or whenever you sing it or whistle it or hum it, then you’ll know what it means. It means that we love one another."

Anne planted a kiss on the palm of his hand, and stepped away. “It doesn’t work like that."

Once again, Phillip was reminded of another night all too similar to this one. How he had sung of wanting to rewrite the stars. Grinning, he took ahold of Anne’s wrist, and gently pulled her in close, wrapping an arm around her waist. “All I want is to fly with you,” he sung, quietly. “All I want is to fall with you.” At this he dipped her, and she couldn’t stop the giggle from escaping her lips. “So just give me all of you."

“It feels impossible,” she chimed in, though the smile on her face said otherwise.

“It’s not impossible,” he disagreed.

“Is it impossible?” she paused, wrapping her arms around his neck.

For the first time, they sung in unison, as Phillip hoisted her off the ground, and span her. “Say that it’s possible. How do we rewrite the stars? Say you were made to be mine. Nothing can keep us apart, because you are are the one I was meant to find. It’s up to you, and it’s up to me. No one can say what we get to be. Why don’t we rewrite the stars? Changing the world to be ours."

* * *

Anne wanted to be humble; she couldn’t stand arrogance or vanity, and yet when she performed she adored the attention. There was something about it that made her feel electric and unstoppable. Given the century, a woman of her colour never usually was regarded as anything more than a nuisance - and that was putting it politely. Being on stage gave her this newfound confidence, something she would never have discovered otherwise.

Being the leading lady in a professional production had been her dream ever since she was a little girl, and she had seen the queues outside of theatres on Broadway. Had she ever thought it truly possible? After meeting Barnum, yes. She was the Sparkling Diamond of New York. Her talents on the dance floor, and on the trapeze, and yes, in the bedroom, and ensured her name alone would always be enough to draw a crowd.

During rehearsal one morning, she was completely aware of all eyes on her. She was singing a duet with Constantine, who was the Romeo to her Juliet in the show. It was the song Phillip had wrote for her, and it filled her with butterflies. Whilst he pretended to be instructing Frank on the piano, she could see his lips curled up into a grin.

Just as her and Constantine reached the second verse, his narcolepsy got the better of him, and he fell face down on the wooden boards. The can-can dancers shrieked a little, and Anne rolled her eyes. While she had to agree that the tattooed man was talented, he was a liability. In-between his unconscious spells and hers, she wondered whether they’d ever get the show finished on time for opening night.

 _Opening night_ , her stomach churned at the thought. It was a day away. Casting a wary glance at the Duke, who sat in his designated chair right in front of the stage, she tried to push down the rising wave of nausea. Coughing a little, her throat still a little tender, she turned her attention back to rehearsal.

“For God’s sake, this is ridiculous!” Barnum exclaimed, as Vasily and Charles tried to wake Constantine, to no avail. “We can’t stop practising now, we’re starting to make real progress! Phillip, you’ll stand in for the Albanian."

“Me?” he croaked, whipping his head up.

Barnum nodded. “Yes, you know the lines and the lyrics better than anyone. Now stop stalling!"

Phillip rushed up to stage, and awkwardly began flipping through the script. A faint blush was creeping up his cheeks, as everyone waited for him. Anne wanted to hold his hand and tell him not to worry, but she couldn’t, not with everyone watching. “Where shall we go from?” he asked no one in particular.

“From Anne’s line after the song,” Barnum replied, sounding exasperated. As the first show came nearer and nearer, the more stressed he became.

Slipping back into character, Anne put a hand to her forehead as she turned away from Phillip. “We must be careful,” she breathed out. “Or we’ll both be caught!"

In a slightly unsteady voice, Phillip said; “Fear not. We will conduct our love affair right under the evil maharajah’s nose.” He was nervous, she could tell, as he was more comfortable writing the words rather than speaking them. He reached out and put a warm hand on her shoulder, making her face him. “He cannot stop our love for one another." It was ironic how unconvincing he was as an actor, when they were quite literally their characters.

“This is silly,” called out a voice from across the room. It was Jenny Lind, an elegant woman with vibrant red hair and porcelain skin. Once upon a time, she had been Barnum’s star act, the ‘Swedish Songbird’. That was before Anne was old enough to take centre stage. In recent years, Jenny had been shunned aside, lucky if she ever made it to the ensemble cast. Bitter and envious, her fall from grace had been messy. Her hand was on the Duke’s chair, as she sent daggers in Anne’s direction. “Why would the courtesan choose the penniless writer?"

The whole room gasped as Anne felt the floor drop under her feet. She couldn’t move, couldn’t look anywhere but at Jenny’s twisted smirk and the Duke’s horrified stare. “Whoops! I mean the sitar player."

Anne didn’t like the attention now. The Duke’s eyes were venomous, and his hands in fists. “I don’t like this play,” he hissed out. “Especially the ending."

Barnum was almost a quivering wreck now, wringing his hands as he bounced over to the Duke. “The ending?” he managed to squeak out.

“Why would the courtesan pick the penniless . . . _sitar player_ over the maharajah, who is offering a lifetime of security? Now that is real love.” Out of the corner of her eye, Anne could see Phillip glaring at the Duke with fiery hatred in his eyes, nostrils flaring. She resisted the urge to hold him back, knowing that he had the capability, the strength and the willpower to knock the aristocrat off his feet, and potentially through the floorboards. “Once the sitar player has satisfied his lust, he’ll leave her with nothing. I suggest that courtesan choose the maharajah."

Her breath was short, as though their was a hand around her throat. She was light-headed, and dizzy. All she wanted to do was comfort Phillip, promise him that the Duke’s words were empty, holding no truth to them. However, the Duke was watching her closely, waiting for her to prove Jenny’s revelation right. If she was to keep her word to Barnum, she couldn’t do anything but wait, no matter how much it hurt.

“That ending does not uphold the bohemian ideals of truth, beauty and freedom - " Charles began, arms crossed.

The Duke dismissed him with a stomp of his foot. “I do not care for your foolish dogma!” he spat, going red in the face. “Why shouldn’t the courtesan choose the maharajah?"

“Because she doesn’t love you!” Phillip bellowed. He didn’t bother correcting himself, instead standing his ground and staring down the Duke. In that moment Anne didn’t think she could love him any more, though she hated what he had done. It would take something immense to get the Duke to believe anything she did or said now.

Thoroughly humiliated, the Duke did his best to appear unfazed. “Oh, I see,” he said through gritted teeth. “Well, Barnum, the ending will be rewritten, with the courtesan choosing the maharajah and without the lovers secret song."

Barnum, who, just like Anne, could only watch the scene unfolding in front of him, was at al loss for words. “That . . . that will be impossible . . . we can’t - "

Feeling guilty for causing such a mess, or at least sharing half the blame, Anne stepped forward, hands on her hips. “Barnum! The poor Duke is being treated appallingly!” she exclaimed, walking down the stairs. She was playing another character, this time the one she knew the Duke liked best. The role of a sultry temptress. She tried to ignore Phillip’s eyes on her back as she sent the Duke an irresistible smile. “These silly writers too easily allow their imaginations to run away from them. Why don’t you and I have a little supper, and then afterwards we can decide how the story really ends?"

She was speaking to him as if he were the only person in the room, and she had captivated his attention expertly. At the mention of supper his eyes widened. They both knew what that really meant. And so did Phillip.

* * *

“I don’t want you to sleep with him,” Phillip blurted out, bursting into Anne’s room.

She was sat at her dressing table, in front of her vanity mirror, touching up her make-up. He caught her reflection staring back at him, and his breath hitched in his throat when he saw how beautiful she looked. Not the same kind of angelic elegance she had when she was with him, in the comfort of his apartment, all curls and real smiles and blushes. No, she was painted to reflect the Duke’s desires. Her lips were crimson, her eyes glittery.

Setting down a brush, she tuned around. “He could destroy everything,” she told him.

He closed the door, and walked over to her. He wasn’t sure what he was going to do, but as always he was drawn to her. She wrapped her arms around his waist, and rested her head against his stomach. She gave a deep sigh, and he couldn’t help but put one hand on her back, and tangle the other one in her dark locks. “It's for us,” she muttered. “You promised you wouldn’t get jealous."

Scoffing, he wished he had never promised her something he could never have kept. He tried to pull away, but Anne got out of her chair and held his face in her hands, forcing him to look at her. In her eyes, her chocolate brown eyes, she looked on the verge of tears. She was keeping herself together, barely, for him. “It will be alright,” she continued, her lip trembling ever so slightly. When he shook his head, she attempted a smile. “Yes, it will."

There was a pause, as if she was waiting for him to say something. Cowardly, Phillip couldn’t think of anything. Anything except begging her to stay with him. When silence started to creep in, Anne dropped her hands, and took a deep breath. “I have to go, he’s waiting - "

“No, no,” he suddenly pleaded, everything becoming all too real. He couldn’t stand by and watch the woman he loved leave to warm the bed of some other man. A man like the Duke. “No, please, no."

His voice was weak, like his resolve, but it was his last move. There was nothing Phillip could do to make Anne stay. He refused to resort to violence, and he wouldn’t hold her against her will. All he had was his words.

Anne closed her eyes, and pressed her cheek to his so that her lips were inches away from his ear. “Why don’t we rewrite the stars?” she whispered, sending shivers down his spine. Planting a soft kiss on his mouth, he didn’t taste her tears until she was out the door, and on her way to the Duke.


	9. The Deed is Done . . . Not Quite

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anne goes to meet the Duke in the tower, and Phillip is left questioning their relationship.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am loving writing this so far, but I'm curious to know what you all think of it?
> 
> My next two AUs I intend to write after this are Titanic, and perhaps Mr and Mrs Smith?
> 
> Enjoy!

* * *

Anne mustered all the courage she possessed as she stepped inside the room on the highest floor in the Gothic Tower. She did wish that it had been named something different, for the awful title was more apt for a crypt, or a cemetery. It didn’t fill her with confidence that anything that waited for her inside was particularly pleasant.

Looking around the room, she was taken aback by the grandiosity of the decor, despite it’s eerie nature. She knew the Duke had money - he was a Duke, after all - but she hadn’t realised that he had _this much_. The chandeliers were sparkling, the mirrors were gilded gold, and the rugs were exported from all over Asia. She should have realised when he was throwing money at the Moulin Rouge despite never spending more than two minutes in Anne’s bed, and no clothes had even been discarded. It was nothing to him, a mere side effect of being in high society.

The Duke was positioned by the fireplace, which was roaring bright orange flames, half empty glass of champagne in his hand. His eyes reflected the fire, and swathed in his black travelling cloak, he reminded her all too much of Charon, the ferryman in Hell and faithful servant to Hades. Trying not to allow her caution show on her features, she flashed him a beguiling smile, red lipstick catching his attention.

“Dear Duke,” she greeted, putting on her best upper class accent. She suspected the Duke wouldn’t appreciate her natural, New Orleans drawl. “I do hope i haven’t kept you waiting long."

Heels echoing through the room as she crossed the marble floor, she pulled off her satin gloves, and discarded them on the floor. The Duke was watching her every step with a beady glare, tongue occasionally flicking out and gliding along his thin lips. “Absence makes the heart grow fonder,” he replied, though she knew what was to transpire that night had nothing to do with the heart. “Speaking of, where’s your little playwright tonight? I’m surprised he’s let you out of his sight."

At the mention of Phillip, Anne’s stomach lurched. She had hoped to put him out of her mind until the deed was done, though she did wonder how she could ever return to his side knowing how much this evening had hurt him. The way he had pleaded with her to stay had broken her heart, the sad look he had given her had shattered it completely. The Duke, maliciously, was trying to get a reaction out of her, an excuse to take the Moulin Rouge away or merely for his own sick entertainment she couldn’t tell. Whatever the reason, she refused to oblige him.

“He has a ridiculous obsession with me,” she dismissed, sounding as nonchalant as she could. “I indulge his fantasies, of course, because he’s talented. We need him, but only until tomorrow night."

The Duke seemed as though he was satisfied with her answer, and she prayed that would be the last they speak of Phillip. He gestured for her to sit at the table. Waiters appeared as if out of thin air, and began too nerve up the first course. A plate of leafy greens and some kind of fish in a saffron yellow sauce. It was something she had never tasted before, or even seen. Picking it up on her fork, she allowed the flavours to dance on her tongue, as she moaned a little in delight. The Duke was examining her closely, as though part of his perverse seduction was to initiate his prey with sophisticated things; fancy decorations and obscure foods.

Their conversation was rather slow, the Duke choosing to stare at her instead. Uncomfortable under his scrutiny, she instead glanced over at the waiters who were clearing their plates and pouring them drinks. With a thick swallow, Anne noticed they were all dark-skinned. Former slaves perhaps? She knew the Duke to be a man who relished in superiority, that’s why he was paying for her company. But did he really need to feel that dominant that he went out of his way to hire an all-black array of servants, a sadistic reminder of a time when only the most prestigious owned slaves?

A shiver went down her spine and all her hair stood up on end. Was that why he chose her? There were any number of courtesans in New York, and while she was the best, any man who dared to be seen with her risked the fierce wagging tongues of aristocracy. Did the colour of her skin, the same colour she shared with the servants, have something to do with him being so insistent on taking her under his wing? Was it to make him feel like a bigger man, like he was better than her? Anne suddenly felt queasy. She took a large gulp of her champagne, allowing the alcohol to temporarily numb her senses.

After the desert was finished, something that was distinctly lemon, the Duke dismissed the waiters. As they left the room, Anne couldn’t miss the piteous looks they sent her way. As the door closed shut, she felt as though she had been thrown to the lions, trapped. The Duke got out of his chair, and motioned for her to follow him to the balcony. With weak knees, she did as she was asked, hoping the fresh air would help calm her nerves. Approaching him, she saw that he had a velvet box in his hands, the size of a picture frame. Furrowing her brows, she cocked her head, and inquired about what was inside.

“When this production succeeds, which I have no doubt it will, you will no longer be a can-can dancer,” he told her, with a sleazy grin. She wanted to remind him that she was much more than a mere can-can dancer, but decided against it. “You will be a star, Miss Wheeler, a real actress. I want you to remember that I made it all possible for you."

Opening the box, Anne gasped. It was a dazzling necklace, moonlight bouncing off the diamonds. A few months ago, it would have been the most precious thing anyone had ever given her. While it was certainly the most expensive thing she had been gifted, it wasn’t the most special. Phillip’s song for her was the thing she treasured the most.

The Duke set aside the box, and instructed her to turn around, so that she was facing the city. Ignoring his hot breath on her neck, she brushed her hair aside so that he could place the necklace around her. It was heavy, and felt more like a chain than a present. “A gift from this maharajah to his courtesan."

* * *

Everyone had gathered in the theatre, scattered about the room as they waited with baited breath. If Anne succeeded in seducing the Duke, then they were all guaranteed jobs in the show the next day. If she didn’t . . . who knows where there would all have to go.

Phillip, however, would have given away his position as playwright weeks ago if it meant he could Anne home, where she was safe. He recalled how ill she had looked after the Duke had insisted she go on a picnic with him; she had even fainted. He wouldn’t want to suggest that she was anything but a tough and capable woman, but he couldn’t deny that the Duke scared her. The prospect of them locked up in a tower, with no one but each other for company, filled him with rage. Rage, and jealousy. Yes, he had promised Anne that he wouldn’t be envious of her dalliance with the Duke, it was impossible to ignore the fire running through his veins at the thought of the Duke with his hands all over her.

He loved Anne, more than anything or anybody, but there was some small part of him that was angry at her too. She had went, willingly, to the tower, dressed in her best silk gown and her lips painted red. Even her hair, which was notoriously untameable, had been pinned atop her head in the most elegant of fashions. She didn’t have to get so dolled up, make herself so irresistible, for another man. Not when the outcome of that night was always going to be the same. She could have gone to him in a pack, and he still would have been making eyes at her across the dinner table. No, she was playing a part, perhaps her greatest one yet. The role of the Duke’s plaything. The make-up and the clothes were all just gift-wrapping.

Bitterly, he hung his head in his hands, wondering if money really meant that much to her. Money, after all, was what this was all about. That and the future the Duke could offer her. She wanted to be a real actress, distinguished and important. Perhaps it was the liquor that was clouding his judgement, for he had consumed rather a lot of it over dinner that night when Anne had left, but he couldn’t stop the thoughts from buzzing around his mind.

Lettie, who had been a steadfast friend of his ever since she had been sworn to secrecy after catching Anne and him hauled away inside a broom closet, perched herself beside him. Not one for society expectations or manners, she reached out and took his hand in her own, and squeezed reassuringly. “She’s not there for the money,” she told him, matter-of-factly. She could read his mind, apparently. “The Duke has the deeds to the Moulin Rouge. He warned Barnum that he could have the place demolished if Anne didn’t sleep with him."

All of a sudden, it all made sense. He had presumed that when Anne spoke of the Duke ‘destroying everything’, she had meant her career, not literally destroying the theatre - and with it her home. So she hadn’t gone quite as willingly as he had thought. She was being forced to. He felt guilty for ever doubting her loyalties.

"I’ve known her since she was a little girl,” Lettie continued. “She does anything Barnum asks of her. She feels she owes him, you see, for taking her and W. D. in. It’s just how she is; kindness is her middle name, I’m certain."

“After danger,” W. D. teased, joining the pair, giving Phillip a sympathetic smile. As her brother, he must have been feeling as wretched about what Anne was up to that night as Phillip was. “Have you seen her in that damn hoop of hers? God, I swear I have a heart attack every time she gets up inside it."

The three of them chuckled, the laugh a small relief from the nerves they were all experiencing. W. D. shot a concerned glance at the flask in Phillip’s grip, and leant in a little, so whatever he had to say wouldn’t be overheard by unwanted ears. “Anne has to do what she does to get by,” he confessed, in a quiet voice. “Outside these walls, there are people that would sooner see her destitute and starving than flourishing. Our skin colour prevents us from being accepted most places. I presume she told you about our past?"

Solemnly, Phillip nodded. The orphanage in New Orleans, stowing away on a train to New York, the begging on the streets; he knew plenty.

“It’s cost her a lot to love you,” W. D. continued. “Promise me you’ll forgive her for tonight? That you won’t hold it against her?"

Promising not to be jealous was difficult, and when it came to upholding this vow the feat proved to be impossible. However, promising to be forgiving was easy. Jealousy was something that he couldn’t help, an emotion that had crept up on him like a fever or a chill. Forgiveness was something he could learn, something he could welcome with open arms.

“She has done nothing I need to forgive,” he replied, honestly.

At this, a large grin broke out on W. D.’s face, and he clapped Phillip on the back. Locking eyes with Lettie, the pair’s smiles seemed to crack just a little, before turning back to him. “Life’s too short to not forgive,” Lettie said, in a faraway sort of tone. It was as though there was something they weren’t telling him.

Before he could ask them anything, Jenny appeared in front of them, a twisted smile stretched across her features. “Oh, why the long face Mr Carlyle? Missing your ‘sparkling diamond’?” she mocked. The way she said ‘sparkling diamond’ was filled with such loathing, and Phillip wondered just what Anne had done to sting Jenny so badly. “Don’t worry, I’m sure the Duke is treating her . . . just as well as any courtesan can expect to be treated. Roughly, I suppose?"

Her vulgar comment infuriated not only Phillip, but W. D. too. Jenny merely laughed at their pain, and dismissed them with a wave of her hand. “Calm down men, Annie’s a big girl. She’s handled men worse than the Duke. In fact, she’s _handled_ quite a few, hasn’t she!"

Phillip lunged for Jenny, to which she shrieked at and hid behind Constantine. The Armenian placed a hand on his shoulder in an attempt to soothe him. “Never fall in love with a woman who sells herself,” he advised, stoically. “It always ends badly. Where love is for the highest bidder, there can be no trust! Without trust, there is no love, and when there’s no trust there’s jealousy. Jealousy, yes, jealousy will drive you mad."

Pulling away, Phillip fled the theatre, Constantine’s words ringing in his ears. His feet were carrying him all the way to the Gothic Tower.

* * *

Before Anne could say anything, he began to plant heated kisses on the nape of her neck, his arms curling around her waist. It made her skin crawl, the way he touched her, but she knew that was what she was there for. The quicker his lust was quenched, the sooner she could return home, where she hoped Phillip would be waiting for her, with open arms.

As if by thinking about him she had conjured him up, Anne spotted Phillip down in the courtyard, gazing up at her. He had wide eyes, fear swimming in the cerulean blue. She gasped, and pulled away from the Duke, leaning over the balcony. Following her line of sight, the Duke also spotted Phillip, and began to chuckle. It was a horrendous noise, grating on her nerves, and she whipped her head around to look at him.

“He _is_ obsessed,” he mocked. “Let’s give him something to watch."

The Duke tried to kiss her, but Anne flinched. She couldn’t bring herself to be that cold, that wicked. Shaking her head, she turned to see if Phillip was still looking. She was partly relieved and partly distraught to see that he had left. The last he had seen of her was with the Duke’s arms around her, and that wasn’t the image she wanted him to remember.

“Oh, I see,” the Duke muttered.

Anne backed away from him, returning inside the tower, as she racked her brain for an excuse. He slammed the door, causing her to jump. “My dear Duke - "

“Silence!” he roared, grabbing her wrists so hard his disgusting nails were digging into her flesh. “You made me believe that you loved me!"

Freeing herself, she fled from him, around the table. Venom was dripping from his horrid expression as he chased her. Anger got the better of him, and he ripped the tablecloth off the table, sending the cutlery, flowers and candles flying. The loud crash made her cry out, tears beginning to spill from her eyes. He was terrifying her now, and she couldn’t see a way out. In the commotion, the Duke leapt upon her, throwing her to the cold marble floor.

“You slut! You filthy, money-grabbing whore!” he spat, looming over her, hurling insult after insult. He ripped the necklace from her throat, the brutal force of the action slicing into her skin. She could feel a faint trickle of blood gliding down her neck. As he threw the diamonds across the room, she scrambled to her feet and tried to escape him once again, to no prevail. He caught her, and dragged her by her hair, which had come undone in the pandemonium, towards the bed.

She couldn’t stop the sobs from leaving her lips now. She knew what the Duke intended to do to her, no matter how much of a fight she put up. Her heart was hammering away inside her chest, fear pulsing through her. His hands were desperate as they rushed to find the clasp on the back of her gown. Without any consideration for the expensive fabric, he tore it off her body in frustration, and she called out. She called out Phillip’s name, her last plea.

The Duke laughed behind her, tormenting her with his lips as he pressed bruising kisses to her bare skin. Only her undergarments were protecting her modesty, his fingers already working away at the strings that held her corset together. “He won’t save you now,” he taunted. Turning her around, he forced her to kiss him, teeth crashing as she squirmed against his mouth. He pushed her backwards, onto the bed, as he started unbuckling his trousers, relishing in her distress.

Anne braced herself for what was to come, when she heard a terrible thud. Opening her eyes, she saw her brother’s fist collide with the Duke’s jaw. He toppled on top of her, completely out cold, as she screamed, struggling to get out from underneath him. W. D. helped her up, and put his jacket around her shoulders. He could see her terror, every inch of her trembling with panic. Doing his best to soothe her, he hurriedly swept her out of the room.

She couldn’t escape fast enough.


	10. The Plan to Elope

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Phillip and Anne plan to runaway together, but Barnum has other plans . . .

* * *

The second Phillip returned back to his small apartment, he knew going to the tower had been a mistake. Seeing her in the Duke’s arms had been painful, even more than the first time he had seen the pair together because now he was completely and madly in love with Anne, not just infatuated. What had been the worst part was that she had seen him too. She had stood there, keeping eye contact with him, all while the Duke kissed her neck.

That was the one image that remained in his brain was that of Anne, tangled up in the Duke’s arms. It was a sickening picture, especially when he considered how she had reacted to him in the past; flinching, goosebumps, _fainting_. She clearly despised the man. He hated to think what being with him now was doing to her.

There was nothing he could do except pace back and forth, feeling nauseous through and through. Wringing his hands together, he considered working some of his anxiety out by writing something - that had worked for him in the past. Yet, there was too much tension in his body, too much unease that he wouldn’t be able to focus his mind on anything. Anne was his greatest muse, but he couldn’t think about her without thinking about what she was up to, and who with. No, he would have to wait. Wait until it was all over.

Fortunately, he didn’t have to wait long. His door swung open, and Anne stood facing him, a complete wreck, W. D. behind her. Her carefully constructed make-up was smeared all over her face, tear tracks staining her cheeks. Her hair was messier than it had ever been, falling about her in tight curls. Whilst she had been fully dressed when she had left earlier that evening, her gown was nowhere to be seen, instead her brother’s jacket enveloping her torso. She was trembling, and not from the cold.

“Phillip,” she breathed out, rushing over to him. He didn’t hesitate to throw his arms around her, as she buried her face in the crook of his neck. She was searching for shelter, and in him she had found it. Rubbing her back, he shot W. D. a concerned glance. The eldest Wheeler had a worrying crimson stain on his white shirt, and his knuckles were split and swollen.

 _'What’s happened?'_ Phillip mouthed, to which W. D. shook his head, replying with _‘later’_.

Phillip placed his hands either side of Anne’s face, and gently pulled her away from his chest so that he could examine her. He wanted to be sure that the blood didn’t come from her. While her usually glowing complexion was dull and drained, there were no visible wounds on her face. He thought he spotted a slash on her neck, the length of a needle, she had started to speak so he diverted his attention.

“I couldn’t go through with it,” she told him, in a desperate voice. “I couldn’t. I saw you there, and I felt . . . differently. I couldn’t pretend. But the Duke . . . he saw, and . . . "

Whatever it was she was trying to say had transpired was clearly too difficult. She was terrified, that much was visible in the way her fingers were shaking and her wide eyes. He tried to calm her, not wanting her to relive anything that would cause her to get anymore worked up than she was. He kissed her, in an attempt to anchor her. It worked, as she physically relaxed against his lips.

“I love you,” she whispered, offering him a small smile. She sat down on his bed, the sheets rumpled, and began fiddling with her nails. “I don’t want to pretend anymore. I can’t go back to him . . . I can’t, Phillip. He knows. He saw you there, and he saw my reaction. He knows everything."

She sounded frightened of the man, tears threatening to spill over again. Phillip reached out for her hand, holding it so that she would be somewhat comforted by his presence. “That’s alright, everything is going to be alright,” he assured her, softly. “We don’t have to hide anymore. We’ll leave, tonight. We’ll run away together."

Anne gazed up at him, her mouth agape, as the words washed over her. “What about the show?” she blurted out.

Chuckling slightly, Phillip squeezed her hand. “I don’t care about the show,” he answered. “We have each other, that’s all that matters."

A smile broke out across her features, and she nodded. He leant down a pressed a quick kiss to her lips, before turning back to W. D., who had been giving the pair as much privacy as possible. “Can you take Anne back to her dressing room and make sure she has everything she needs?” he asked. “No one must see her."

W. D. understood the importance of getting Anne to safety. The more Phillip thought about it, the more he wondered if the blood belonged to the Duke; just what had he done to deserve a strike from W. D.? The idea made him shudder. All that he needed to worry about was Anne, and making sure she was protected.

Phillip kissed Anne again, this time passionately, as she turned to leave. He had a horrid feeling as the door closed, and he couldn’t shake it.

* * *

“It’s the writer,” the Duke hissed, poisonously. He was sat in Barnum’s office, his split cheek being tended to carefully with a damp cloth. “He . . . he has bewitched her with his words and . . . and his music. I want her back. I need you to get her back, Barnum."

To say Barnum was conflicted was an understatement. The Duke was rather selective about what he shared with him about the events of that night, but he had been more than willing to admit that it was Anne’s brother who had hit him. This information concerned Barnum. W. D. wasn’t usually an angry man, he would only resort to violence when absolutely necessary. There were only a handful of things that made his tempers flare, and threats to Anne was at the very top of that list. Glancing down at the Duke, he could tell that something bad had happened, and though his loyalties were to the Wheeler siblings, his profession meant that the customers were always right.

Rape was something that Barnum had zero tolerance for, but the way the Duke was riled up, all bloodshot and agitated, he knew that the aristocrat hadn’t got what he was after. Had Anne said no? Had she turned him away? There was only one reason she wouldn’t have been able to go through with it; Phillip. That boy had gotten under her skin, and clouded her judgement. Before him, she was driven, she was focused. She had the makings of a perfect courtesan, the perfect woman. Now, she was ruining everything because she’d developed feelings for the playwright.

He loved Anne like one of his own daughters, and he wanted to hit the Duke too for what he presumed had happened earlier that night. However, his hands were tied. He had to make sure the Duke wasn’t going to snatch the Moulin Rouge from him, and that meant he had to keep the man happy. _Anne had to keep him happy_. The thoughts were warring in his mind, as he looked between the Duke’s nasty cut and growing black eye, and the view he had from his office window. The whole of New York was his for the taking, if he could just acquire a little more money . . .

Her illness hung over the Moulin Rouge like a dark cloud. A storm only he knew was coming. She was going to die soon, that much was clear. As selfish as his motives were, he needed Anne to stay alive long enough so that the Duke was satisfied and the deeds were handed back to him. Of course, he wanted her to make a speedy recovery, but that was unlikely. That meant that any deal he had struck up with the Duke had to be closed, and fast.

“What would you have me do?” Barnum asked him, clasping his hands together.

“Tell her the show will go my way, with my ending, and that she will come to me when the curtain falls,” the Duke answered, a maniacal glint in his eye as his moustache twitched. “Or . . . I’ll have the boy killed."

His stomach convulsed at the thought, knowing that if it came to that, Phillip’s blood on his hands, Anne would never forgive him. She certainly wouldn’t give in to the Duke’s demands, let alone uphold her promise to secure the Moulin Rouge. He gulped, and tugged at his collar. “Killed? Surely that’s a little extreme."

The Duke tightened his jaw and pinched his lips. He cocked his head, as if daring Barnum to contradict him again.

“I’ll talk to her,” he finally said, with a slight nod.

* * *

Anne was rummaging through her drawers, throwing items of clothing over shoulders as she chose only the necessities, when she heard the door open. Snapping her head around, heart in her mouth, she was relieved to see that it was only Barnum, and not the Duke. However, is sombre expression gave her the impression that he was there to reprimand her. She shouldn’t have expected anything different, not after the way he had been behaving the last few weeks.

“I’m not interested,” she dismissed, turning back to her packing. She had to hurry if she was going to meet Phillip in time to catch the train to . . . it struck her that she hadn’t a clue where they were headed, and it didn’t bother her in the slightest. As long as she was with him, she was happy.

“You need to listen, Anne, the Duke - "

“Is a beast who just tried to rape me!” Anne interjected, outraged, her hands in fists by her sides. How could Barnum, a man who had known her for thirteen years, take the side of her attacker so quickly? “You can’t make me go back to him."

Hearing her outburst, W. D. ran into the room, eyes wide. He visibly calmed, however, when he saw Barnum. He rushed over to Anne and took the shawl from her hands, which was getting crumpled, and began to fold it carefully for her with a kind smile.

Barnum sighed, and stepped closer to the siblings. “I can’t make you, but he will,” he told her, in a grave tone. "The Duke is going to kill Phillip."

At that comment, Anne felt as though all the wind had been knocked out of her. Thinking about the fire that had dwelled in his eyes earlier, and the brutal force in which he had grabbed her, she knew that the Duke was certainly capable of such violence. She stumbled backwards, with W. D. catching her just in time. He set her down in her chair, and placed a comforting hand on her shoulder. “What?” she mustered, her voice failing her.

“The Duke’s insanely jealous,” Barnum continued, as though the aristocrat’s envy was justification enough for murder. “Unless we do his ending in the show tomorrow night, and you sleep with him, he’ll have Phillip killed."

Anne shook her head, steeling herself. “No, no,” she told him. “We’ll be far away by then, he won’t be able to find us."

Bending down in front of her Barnum tried to reach out for her hand, blabbering on about how it wouldn’t work, that the Duke is a powerful man and he has his ways. She didn’t want to listen. He was only looking out for himself, trying to squeeze more money out of her. “He can’t scare us, P. T.!” she exclaimed, jumping up. “And neither can you!"

“You’ll always be looking behind, wondering if he’s found you,” Barnum tried again, but she was already ignoring him.

“Stop it!” Anne called out, wiping away an angry tear. “I don’t need you anymore! All my life you’ve made me believe that I was only worth what somebody was willing to pay for me. But Phillip . . . he loves me. He truly loves me. That is worth everything. We’re leaving tonight, and there’s nothing you could say that is going to keep me here."

She shrugged on W. D.’s jacket again, over a simple peach dress, and hoisted her bag off the bed. Her brother accompanied her to the door, and they were nearly gone when Barnum called after them. “You’re dying, Anne,” he muttered, softly. The sadness in his slouch, the lilt on his lips and the dull eyes told her that her that he really was upset by this news.

“Another trick?” she whispered, but Barnum shook his head. She turned to W. D., who she knew would be incapable of lying to her, and saw in his teary expression that it was true. A sob rose up in her throat, and the bag feel from her fingers. Dizzy, she leant against her brother for support. “I’m dying?"

“You have . . . tuberculosis,” W. D. explained, struggling to find the right words to say, holding her close to his chest. She could feel him trying to stay composed, trying to stay strong for her, and it broke her heart more. “It’s . . . Anne, it’s serious. The doctor says you . . . you won’t . . . oh God, that you won’t survive it."

As she heard her diagnosis, secondhand, it began to make sense. The persistent cough, the frequent nausea, the fever. She had put most of those symptoms down to an aversion to the Duke’s company, but it had all been something more severe. The blood should have been an indicator, but she had been too wrapped up in her happiness that she had ignored it.

Barnum stayed a respectable distance away from the siblings, but didn’t keep his opinions to himself. “Send Phillip away. Only you can save him."

Frowning, Anne didn’t understand. “Why should I send him away? Why can’t I go with him?"

“Do you really want to runaway, with the poor boy planning his entire future with you, only to have him watch you die?” Barnum replied, with furrowed brows.

He knew what her answer would be before she did, and this frustrated her. She couldn’t agree to elope with Phillip now, not knowing that it would not only be completely unfair to him, but he wouldn’t understand her change of mind. However, there was no way she was going to tell him she was minuted away from her deathbed. That would be too painful. “He’ll fight for me,” she blurted, trying to reason with herself.

“Yes, unless he thinks you don’t love him,” Barnum pointed out. “You’re a great actress, Anne, convince him."

Tears were falling freely down her cheeks, and she couldn’t even wipe them away. Instead, she turned away from Barnum, his presence filling her with rage. W. D. was holding back his own tears, but his lips were trembling. He tucked a stand of her hair behind her ear, and offered her a sweet smile. This must be awful for him, his last family member slipping through his fingers. Either she was going to run away and die somewhere foreign, or she would stay and die in front of him. Either way, their time together was precious. She had already squandered so much of it with the show, and with the Duke. If she had known about her illness sooner, she would have escaped a long time ago, taking W. D. with her and Phillip.

He kissed her forehead, one of the only people tall enough to do so. “It will hurt him far less if you leave him now,” he explained, in such a gentle way that it was difficult to believe they were talking about breaking Phillip’s heart, a man who had only ever been so kind and loving. “Let him believe you don’t feel the same, and he’ll be able to move on, given time. If he stays, he’ll have to mend more than a broken heart. Anne, he won’t be able to watch you die."

“What about you?” she sobbed.

“I’ve had twenty-two years with you, I know you better than anybody,” he beamed, though his voice was cracking. “I have enough memories to last me a lifetime. I’ll be happy knowing you’re in heaven with mama. But Phillip, he isn’t strong enough. It’ll crush him."

W. D. enveloped her in a hug, his body radiating warmth. He rubbed her back in circular motions, just like he would when she was a little girl and had a nightmare. It was rather apt to do it now; she felt as though she was living in a nightmare.

“You need to push him away, Anne,” he whispered. “If seeing you die doesn’t kill him, then the Duke will."


	11. The Heartbreak

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anne has only one way to save Phillip.

* * *

It was with a heavy heart and reluctant hand that Anne knocked on Phillip’s apartment door. She had only a few seconds before he would answer, and in that minuscule amount of time, she found herself flooded with fear and an impulse to flee. Before she could act on that impulse, the door swung open and she was met with Phillip’s beaming face and she was grounded to the floor, her every fibre numb. All except her heart, which was aching.

He leant in for a kiss, and it took almost everything she had to turn away. That little bit left she was going to need to end things with him. He looked bemused, but shrugged it off and welcomed her in. Biting the inside of her cheek, Anne tried to convey no emotion, her face a blank canvas, as she took a deep breath.

However, just as she was about to say aloud the speech she had been rehearsing in her head the entire walk there, Phillip’s brow creased in that adorable way, and he reached out to hold her hands. He caught them before she could pull away, though he sensed her resistance. His mere touch sent her body haywire, goosebumps flaring and her heartbeat quickening. “What’s wrong?” he asked her, in a calm voice, though she knew he was starting to worry.

“I’m staying,” she replied, bluntly. Phillip stared at her, half in bewilderedness, half in shock. “With the Duke. After I left here he came to see me. He offered me everything. Everything I’ve ever wanted. There’s one condition though, that I must never see you again.” She looked away, down at her hands entwined with his, and gulped. She couldn’t let him see the tears in her eyes, or else he’ll know it was all a ruse, just as it had been the second time they had met in her dressing room. “I’m sorry,” she muttered, giving the effect that his feelings were an afterthought of hers, when in truth they were the only thing she was able to think about.

Shaking his head, Phillip ran a hand through his hair as he paced back and forth. “I don’t understand,” he muttered. He was trying to work it all out in his head, trying to wrap his mind it all. “What about us?"

“There can’t be an us,” Anne explained, the words like acid on her lips. “You knew what I am Phillip when we started this whole mess. You must have realised that this couldn’t have been serious."

Again, he was denying it all. He took her face in his hands and made her look at him. He was searching her eyes, searching for any shred of doubt. However, she was indeed a great actress, and burying her feelings was a fantastic party trick of hers. “No, you’re lying,” he said, firmly. He kissed her, fervently, but her lips did not move. They did not greet him with any kind of warmth. “What about what happened earlier, with the Duke, in the tower? I know that he hurt you, I know that - "

“What happened in the tower is between me and the Duke,” Anne interrupted, not wanting to be reminded of the horrific events, and not wanting Phillip to think of it either. She would rather he assume that what happened in the tower was consensual and satisfying, even if that meant it hurt him, because then it would be easier for him to let her go. If he knew what had really happened, that the Duke had almost forced himself on her, then the consequences would be . . . too disastrous to even contemplate. “I don’t expect you to understand it, you’re too sentimental."

“Sentimental!” he exclaimed, eyes wide. “I’m too sentimental because it pains me to see you with another man? I don’t care if it’s your job, I can offer you a better life. I booked us tickets on the next ferry to France, and from there we’ll go to Paris. We’ll be allowed to marry there, isn’t that great? They haven’t got any laws against it in France. Tell me that doesn’t sound nice, Anne? Exciting, even?"

Paris sounded marvellous. She’d always wanted to see the famous city of lights, the city of love. What better place could there be to settle down and begin a new life with the man she loved? He even wanted to marry her. They could be Mr and Mrs Carlyle, raise a proper family. If she closed her eyes, she could practically hear the sound of the river running and the dozen accordions playing, and smell the fresh bread being baked. However, how long would that life be perfect? Within a week she could be dead, and Phillip would be alone in a strange city, and everything that had once made it romantic and picturesque now reminded him of the love he had lost. No, she couldn’t do that to him.

“The Duke has offered me something better,” she lied, shrugging nonchalantly whilst trying to contain her true feelings of despair. “A grand house in London with a view of Hyde Park. They haven’t gotten any anti-miscegenation laws there either. I’ll get to be a Lady. I’ll have a carriage, and maids, and a wardrobe to rival a princess’s. Can you promise me the same?"

At this comment, Phillip stared at her with utter horror. “Tell me you’re lying,” he breathed out, barely audible. “Tell me that you’re not that shallow that you’d throw away everything we have for some stupid carriage and a few pretty dresses?"

While her heart felt like it was being ripped out, Anne sought little comfort in the fact that he was believing her. “Don’t forget the title."

“Stop it!” he cried out, his exterior cracking, showing the scared wreck underneath. His eyes, bright blue, were brimming with anguish, and looked paler an duller than usual. “Stop saying things you don’t mean. Please, Anne, this isn’t the girl I fell in love with."

“That girl doesn’t exist,” Anne sighed, stepping backwards. She couldn’t let him know that that girl was in fact the one stood in front of him, barely holding herself together. “You saw what you wanted. You fell in love with who you wanted to. I told you, it’s what I’m good at, being what others want me to be."

For a split second, she saw anger flash in his eyes. He pointed a finger at her, narrowing his eyes. “You have only ever been yourself with me, and we both know that,” he muttered, then frowned. He dropped his hand, and he looked thoroughly defeated. “Tell me the truth. There has to be something else, something you’re not telling me."

“You want to know the truth, Phillip?” she told him, putting as much poison into her tone as possible, staring straight at him. “The truth is that I’m the courtesan and I’m choosing the maharajah. That’s how the story really ends. Love isn’t real, but security is."

With that last, sweeping blow, Anne left the room. Looking at Phillip had become unbearable. Knowing that she was responsible for breaking his heart was a difficult pill to swallow, made even worse by her heart breaking too.

* * *

Phillip couldn’t let Anne leave. Not without getting a proper explanation from her. Something had to have happened for her to change her mind so quickly. Was it true that the Duke had come to visit her with a better proposition? He was scared to admit it, but he believed her. He believed that the Duke really did offer her something better. The only shred of doubt he had was resting on the fact that she had tried to push him away once before.

As he ran in the rain after her, he clung onto this piece of information. He recalled how she had been unable to look at him then, shying away. Today, however, she had managed to hold his gaze. That had been the final nail in the coffin, the way she had look him in the eyes and tell him that love didn’t matter. She had even echoed the Duke’s words, choosing security over their relationship - as if he couldn’t offer her a happy life? What about him wasn’t secure? He loved her, he wanted to marry her, he would do anything for her. Who’s to say that the Duke wouldn’t grow bored of her when the next pretty young thing turns his head?

He had reached the Moulin Rouge in a matter of minutes, and stood outside the building, raindrops soaking his skin and clothes. He aimed straight for the doors, but found himself denied entry. Guards, who had only ever been friendly with him, were pushing him away, shaking their heads. When he persisted, they shoved him roughly to the puddle-soaked ground. They wouldn’t acknowledge him. Had this been Anne’s doing? Had she told them to turn him away?

Brow furrowed, he picked himself up and looked up at the Moulin Rouge. He knew she was inside. It was hard to breath, the wind knocked out of him by the guards and his heart feeling as though it was being constricted, he mustered up as much air as possible and called out her name. “Anne!” he cried, his voice getting lost in the storm. “Please, Anne!"

He could have sworn he saw a glimpse of her in one of the windows, and gasped. Waving his hands in the air, desperately, he continued. “Anne! Let me in! Anne!” It was useless. She was ignoring him, and his pleas were falling on deaf ears. The guards, burly and intimidating men, approached him, one of their fists colliding with his cheek.

The next thing he knew he was lying in his bed, the faces of his bohemian troupe looming over him. They all breathed a collective gasp of relief to see him stir, and Charles helped him sit up. He wrapped a blanket over Phillip, his clothes stuck to his skin, as he shivered. He could feel his cheekbone throb, and knew that a bruise was beginning to form.

“She wouldn’t let me in,” he grumbled, to nobody in particular. Nothing felt real. Less than an hour ago he had been packing his bag, ready to board a boat to Paris. Now, he was nursing a sore face and an even more painful broken heart.

Charles perched himself on the corner of the bed, and sighed. “Things aren’t always as they seem,” he tried. Of course, he would choose a time like this to be philosophical.

“Things are absolutely the way they seem,” Phillip retorted, not in the mood for a profound lecture. “She chose money over love. She chose him over me."

Vasily, who was usually rather a reserved character, shook his head. “That’s not like Anne,” he said, firmly. “She’s not that sort of girl."

“She’s a courtesan, she’s _exactly_ that sort of girl,” Constantine scoffed. Despite his wounded heart, Phillip still felt the urge to defend her as he shot the Armenian a mean glare. “I mean, every time she gets into a bed with a man she’s choosing money over love. You couldn’t expect somebody like that to really understand what it means to love another person."

Shooting up, Phillip was only restrained from hitting Constantine by Charles intervention. He laid a hand on his arm, and sat him down. “Phillip, you may only see me as a drunken vice-ridden gnome whose friends are just pimps and girls from the brothels,” he began, the statement earning an agreeing echo of chuckles from the others. “But I know about art and love if only because I love for it with every fiber of my being. Anne loves you. I know it. I know she loves you."

He wanted to believe Charles’s words. He really did, but it was too much. Too many possibilities were floating about his imagination, when reality was the only thing he could be sure of; that Anne hadn’t chosen him. That after everything, all their time spent together, talking about a future, wasn’t worth anything to her. Not compared to the jewels and costumes and servants and carriages that the Duke was willing to give her.

Hanging his head in his hands, he groaned. “Leave,” he muttered, resignedly. When he heard no movement, he stomped his feet. “Get out! Leave me alone!” His outburst was out of character, and it took the others by surprise. They left immediately, with only Charles left shaking his head at him.

“You know I’m right,” he whispered. “Anne’s too kind, too honest. How she feels about you, it can’t be turned off like a flick of a switch. Why would she leave you? To protect you, Phillip. You need to find out why."


	12. The Persistent Playwright

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Phillip demands answers, answers that Anne isn't willing to give.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this is a little late, but I've been busy with the first week back at college and I underestimated how busy I would be! Please, enjoy!
> 
> Let me know what you think.

* * *

Charles’s words were ringing in Phillip’s ears as he snuck into the Moulin Rouge the opening night of the show. _'How she feels about you, it can’t be turned off like a flick of a switch’_. It would have made sense, after a good night’s sleep. However, he’d been plying himself with alcohol the second he had slammed the door behind Charles. Anne couldn’t so easily wave her hand and dismiss him as if everything that had happened between them was nothing. She wasn’t that sort of girl, courtesan or not. She felt things, deeply, much stronger than anybody else he had ever met. And the Duke repulsed her, she wouldn’t run to him for any amount of money in the world.

Or could she? Had everything been an act? She was certainly good at pretending; she had gotten the Duke to believe that she loved him the whole time she was seeing Phillip in secret.

Suddenly, as he broke the window into the room where the costumes were stored - a room he and Anne had frequented often - a thought struck him that he was unable to shake. What if he had in fact been the one that was being fooled the whole time? What if Anne truly had just been pretending with him and had been seeing the Duke all along? She had missed a handful of their meetings, and blamed some inexplicable illness. His blood began to boil as he cast his mind back to all the sweet nothings she had whispered to him, all the promises she had made, when in truth she had been laughing about it with the Duke behind his back. It was a sick trick to pull, but he wouldn’t put it past a courtesan; playing with men’s hearts for entertainment.

Furious, he stormed out the room and wandered around backstage, looking for Anne. In his search for her he came across the unconscious form of Constantine, dressed in his sitar player’s costume. Hearing the songs he had wrote being performed the other side of the curtain, he knew that the show had already started. That meant Anne would be on stage. He could even hear her sweet voice, if he strained his ears. It sent a pang of pain through his body, straight to his heart.

If she was performing, however, that meant the Duke would be front row, watching his beloved. That angered Phillip. Gritting his teeth, he slipped off the white jacket from Constantine’s slumbering body, and shrugged it onto his own torso. He needed to blend in, knowing that the guards who had thrown him out the night before would surely be looking for him.

One of the benefits of being the playwright of the show was that Phillip knew exactly when one act would end, and another would start. Recognising the dialogue being spoken on stage by Barnum as the evil maharajah, he figured that he had a few minutes until intermission would begin. In that space of time he guessed that Anne would take respite in her dressing room. He planned on intercepting her there.

However, he spotted a burly man with a gruff looking scowl glaring his way, and recognised him as the Duke’s dogsbody. He fled as fast as his feet would carry him, weaving between costume rails and vanity mirrors. Props were littered across the floor, and there were enough people loitering around that caused enough of a barricade for the henchman to keep up with Phillip. Catching his breath, he ducked into a store cupboard, and waited for the opportune moment to escape.

* * *

The opening night was going off without a hitch, and more importantly the crowd was loving every minute. Barnum bowed to his beloved audience, and disappeared behind the falling curtain. Fanning himself, he congratulated everyone on a fantastic first act, and made his way towards Anne. She looked a little flushed, and he would have put that down to the heat of the spotlight, but all things considered he feared the worst. Especially when she began to cough. People started to glance her way with furrowed eyebrows, so Barnum hurried her away to her dressing room, telling passersby not to worry.

“My throat feels like it’s on fire,” she rasped, snatching the pitcher of water from W. D.’s hand as soon as she could. Gulping down the liquid, it didn’t appear to help her in the slightest, as she continued to cough. Her handkerchief came away form her mouth splattered with blood, as Lettie soothed her with circular motions on her back.

Barnum and W. D. shared a cautious glance. “She can’t go back on,” her brother hissed, making sure he was out of earshot of Anne. “Singing is only making her worse."

There was no possible way that Barnum was going to cancel the show now, not with the remarkable reception it received in it’s first half. He would have to refund the visitors, and he couldn’t afford that. Shaking his head, he tried to appear optimistic. “She’ll pull through,” he shrugged, with a grin that faltered slightly as he watched Lettie force-feed Anne a spoonful of medicine. “She has to pull through."

He wasn’t sure if Anne would ever get better, not after the doctor’s visit. She needed constant retouches of make-up just to look alive, and her doses of medicine had been doubled twice that week. It made his stomach sink to see her fading before his eyes, knowing that any breath could be her last. However, the truth of the matter was that he needed her to survive the final act, just so he could rake in the profits. Her death would cost him more than a loved one; it would cost him the theatre.

Barnum allowed Anne some privacy with her brother and Lettie before they would return back to the stage. Closing the door behind him, he caught sight of the Duke’s bodyguard of sorts, walking towards him with a stern expression.

“What is it?” he asked, nerves building inside.

“The writer’s here,” the man replied, grimly. His voice was as ghastly as his shabby appearance.

Barnum sighed, putting his hand to his forehead. “I told Anne that if Phillip were to come near her he’d be killed!” The last thing that girl needed was to watch the love of her life die in front of her.

In all the stress of that evening, with Anne’s illness taking a turn for the worst and the pressure of performing well, now with the added burden of protecting Phillip from the Duke’s wrath, Barnum had been completely oblivious to Charles eavesdropping behind a piece of set.

* * *

Anne began to make her way back to stage, her cough subsiding but her inflamed and raw throat still causing her a whole world of pain. She worried that she wouldn’t be able sing to the best of her ability. Not only would a bad performance be disastrous to her career, but it would disappoint Barnum too. Sickness or not, he was expecting the absolute most from her that night.

Suddenly, there was a grip on her arm and she felt herself being yanked sideways. She wanted to call out, but when a familiar scent filled her nose, ink and applewood, she thought against it. Phillip had found her, and she didn’t want the Duke to find him.

“You shouldn’t be here,” she whispered, pulling herself out of his grasp. Anne met his eyes, and instead of seeing his soft blue eyes she was struck by how cold they were, how full of loathing. “What’s wrong?"

He reached into his pocket and threw a handful of papers at her. Upon closer inspection, she saw that they were dollar bills. His anger was scaring her, the fury in which he had hurled the money at her frightened her. He had never been anything but gentle and kind with her, so for him to now treat her with such disdain was unnerving.

“I’m paying my bill,” he hissed, his speech slurred. Clearly he had been drinking. “Isn’t that what men do when they're finished with their whores?”

His words stung, and she was desperately fighting back tears. She still had to keep up the act, even if it was costing her everything. “You should leave, Phillip,” she muttered. “Go - "

“You made me believe that you loved me,” he interrupted, sounding hoarse. His clothes were dishevelled, and there were large bags under his eyes. “Isn’t that what I’m supposed to do? Pay you?"

Anne wanted to believe that it was his broken heart talking, and that he didn’t truly think the things he was spewing. He had a weakness for drink too, and perhaps that was a factor. She was moments away from wrapping her arms around him and kissing all their troubles away, but knew that it would only fill them both with false hope. Phillip with hope that she truly did love him, and Anne with hope that everything was going to be alright. He could live a long life, forgetting about the girl who trampled his heart in a few years when he meets somebody knew, whilst her body would be five feet underground and her spirit watching him from heaven; her life for his felt like a fair trade. However, if she were to carry on seeing him, continue loving him as fiercely as she did, then the Duke would have him killed and then both of their bodies would be condemned to rot in the earth. Knowing she would be responsible for his death was a horrifying thought, especially when he would have died for nothing - she’d be dead in a year, their life together snuffed out before it had really begun.

With that reminder, painful as it was, she pursed her lips and tried to get control over her breathing. “You’re making a fool out of yourself,” she sighed, and tried to push past him. She wouldn’t take his money.

“Are you too good for me now?” he laughed, though it sounded more like choking. “Is my money not satisfactory enough for a future Duchess?”

She almost felt like laughing too at his last statement. The Duke didn’t intend on marrying her, it wouldn’t be proper. She was coloured and an actress, he was white and wealthy. His reputation would be made by having an ‘exotic courtesan’ at his beck-and-call, but it would be ruined if he were to take her as his wife. No, that position was better suited to a lady of high standing, one with a dowry and a pot-bellied father.

Anyway, she would never survive the boat journey to London. Not with her health deteriorating as fast as it was.

“Anne!” called out Lettie, who was frantically searching backstage for the star performer. “Anne!"

“See, I must go,” Anne told Phillip, swinging the door open. She wanted to ensure that Phillip didn’t return, that his last encounter with her was so awful that the thought of another was sickening. He couldn’t come and find her again, not with the Duke lingering so closely. There was far too much at stake.“And so must you. Find somewhere your presence, and money, is actually wanted. A bar, perhaps?"

Phillip cocked his head, and furrowed his eyebrows. “Is this who you have been all this time? This poisonous, spiteful woman who toys with men’s feelings as if they mean nothing?"

“Men know what they’re getting into, know that for the right price I’ll tell them anything,” she replied, her posture so stiff she feared she’d faint. “You were just foolish enough to think that you were different."

When he didn’t leave, she began to walk off, heading towards the stage. She cursed herself for being powerless over her emotions, her eyes prickling with hot tears. Hearing footsteps behind her she knew that he was following her.

“Have you heard yourself? This isn’t you, it’s not even your accent.” He was testing her, willing her to crack. She had to be strong, had to continue the lie even if it was tearing her insides apart.

She swivelled around, with a devilish smirk, forced of course. “What, you mean my oh so sugary, sweeter than honey Louisiana drawl?” she replied, emphasis on the description. Her New Orleans accent had been something she had tried to hide for most of her time as a courtesan. For some men it reminded them of her heritage, of her ancestors, and it put them off touching her. Barnum had, subtly of course, suggested that she slip into something more refined around the guests. Over the course of time she began to converse more often in her new accent rather than her inherited one, and it was only around those that she was close with - Phillip included - that she allowed herself to speak freely. “Part of the act. You took to it, and enjoyed the the pretend."

“You are certainly very good at your job,” he finally said, shaking his head. He appeared defeated. “Scarily so."

Anne curtsied, what she hoped was the final nail in the coffin, and ran to resume her place on the stage. However, he was relentless. He continued after her, reaching out for her hand. He pulled her towards him, roughly. “If it wasn’t real, then why can’t I pay you?"

“Get off me,” she murmured, struggling against him.

The pair were still locked together, Phillip’s grip on Anne’s wrists unyielding, as the prop doors opened, and the whole of the theatre was revealed.


	13. The Final Song

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The show comes to a close, but the drama is not yet over...

Spotlight glaring, Phillip felt disoriented. The combination of disturbing revelations, bright lights, and alcohol was causing his head to spin. The only thing that grounded him was the feel of Anne’s pulse racing in her wrist. He let her arms slip out of his grip, and shook his head at her. “Tell me you don’t love me,” he whispered, tears falling in rivers from his eyes. She wouldn’t answer, instead glancing between him and the audience. His anger was bubbling to the surface now, and he stamped his foot. “Tell me you don’t love me!” he bellowed. She flinched, and he could see that she too was sobbing, though he suspected it had more to do with her beloved show going up in shambles.

Barnum was the one to salvage the play, chuckling exaggeratedly at their display. “Ha ha! I am not fooled!” he exclaimed, pointing a finger at Phillip. “Though he has shaved off his beard and covered up his tattoos, my eyes see straight through his disguise. For it is he, the penniless sitar player! Driven mad by jealousy!"

The crowd loved this strange announcement, and echoed Barnum’s laughter. There was even a slight spattering of applause. Phillip, however, had no motivation to indulge their enjoyment. He turned his back on Anne, ignoring her tears, and stared straight at the Duke. He was watching the scene unfold with wide eyes, leaning forward in his seat. “She is yours,” Phillip spat. “I’ve paid my whore."

The audience gasped, and he saw the Duke grin, maliciously. Glancing down at Anne, Phillip stepped back. “I owe you nothing, and you are nothing to me,” he told her, his own voice sounding hollow. Coming to see her, despite the fact she had well and truly broken his heart, had taken everything he had, and now he felt empty. She had left him empty. “Thank you for curing me of my ridiculous obsession with love."

With that, he began to walk away. Past the other performers, and down off the stage, he no longer cared. Barnum continued to spot made-up dialogue, convincing the audience it was all part of the show, but Phillip was deaf to it. All his work into the play had been motivated by Anne’s love for him. Now he knew it had all been fake, it no longer mattered to him how the show turned out.

All of a sudden he heard the words _‘the greatest thing you’ll ever learn is just to love, and be loved in return!’_ echoed around the theatre, and his whole body jolted. He stopped in his tracks, eyes wide. Inside his chest his heart was hammering away. Before he could walk another step, another voice joined the fray.

“You know I want you.” It was shaky, and it was barely audible, but the words rang clear enough for Phillip. It was the song he had composed for Anne, their secret song, something just for them to sing to let the other know how they truly felt. “It’s not a secret I try to hide."

What kind of sick joke was she trying to play on him? Every logical part of his brain was telling him to leave and never look back, and his feet even started to move a few inches. However, there was a certain rawness to Anne’s voice, the way in which she kept breaking and stumbling over the words, that made him listen. Whilst his legs carried him towards the door, the tiny piece of his heart that had been left unscathed by her betrayal was aching, begging him to stay.

“I know you want me, so don’t keep saying our hands are tied. You claim it’s not in the cards, that fate is pulling you miles away and out of reach from me. But you’re here in my heart, so who can stop me if I decide that you’re my destiny."

Her voice was getting stronger now, louder. It was as though she were imploring him to turn around. It was tempting, it truly was. He had even ground to a halt, unknowingly.

The music had even kicked in, Frank conducting the orchestra to harmonise with Anne. “What if we rewrite the stars? Say you were made to be mine. Nothing could keep us apart, you’d be the one I was meant to find."

Almost as if he had no control over himself anymore, Phillip slowly swivelled around, and saw that Anne was standing in the centre of the stage. She was singing to him, as though he were the only one in the room. Their eyes locked, and it felt like the first time they had seen each other. “It’s up to you, and it’s up to me. No one can say what we get to be. So why don’t we rewrite the stars? Maybe the world could be ours, tonight?"

Anne coughed a little, and after removing her hand from her mouth, she smiled gently. “I love you,” she said, softly. The audience, all believing this to be part of the show, awed in delight.

“All I want is to fly with you,” he sang out. As the lyrics left his lips he saw Anne’s face light up. “All I want is to fall with you. So just give me all of you. It feels impossible!"

Joining in, Anne shook her head. How the roles had reversed. “It’s not impossible!"

Phillip began to head towards the stage again, wanting nothing more than to be by Anne’s side. They were singing in unison now, just as they should, and his heart was soaring. “Is it impossible? Say that it’s possible. How do we rewrite the stars? Say you were made to be mine. Nothing can keep us apart, ‘cause you are the one I was meant to find."

With a grin as wide as he thought possible, Phillip walked up the stairs to stand beside Anne, their voices or gazes never faltering. Her hands went to his chest, their noses inches apart. "It’s up to you, and it’s up to me. No one can say what we get to be. So why don’t we rewrite the stars? Changing the world to be ours."

They were going to kiss, their eyes fluttering shut, when Charles could be heard calling out his name. “Phillip! He’s got a gun!” A loud crash could be heard, and shrieks from a few of the performers. At the mention of a gun, Phillip and Anne whipped their heads towards the source of the commotion. He could see Charles sprawled across the floor, gesturing to a pistol, whilst the Duke’s dogsbody lay a few feet away, dazed and confused. “They’re trying to kill you!"

Whilst the audience laughed at what they thought was a comedic comment made by the comic relief, Phillip suddenly felt everything fall into place. The gun, the Duke’s henchman, and Charles’s statement was certainly linked to Anne’s sudden change of heart. Had she chose the Duke to protect him? Was that why she had been so distant and cold towards him, in an attempt to push him away? One quick glance at her expression confirmed to him all that he thought.

Barnum desperately struggled to revive the show, gesturing to the orchestra to play music and for the dancers to dance along. Behind them, Charles struggled with the assailant over the gun, which ended up soaring through the air and landed at the Duke’s feet. Although Phillip and Anne were joining in with the final song, he watched anxiously as the Duke picked up the gun. With a shaky hand, he pointed it towards Phillip, teeth gritted. In an unexpected turn, Barnum swung a fist at the Duke, knocking him to the floor.

Anne laughed, and held onto Phillip tighter. He could practically feel her worries seep out of her.

As the curtain closes, the audience on their feet clapping enthusiastically, Phillip couldn’t wait any longer and kissed Anne, passionately. Their lips were locked together for quite a while, not stopping to catch their breath. After the fear of thinking he had lost her, he didn’t want to let her go for one second. Her hands were either side of his face, her movements eager.

“Stand by for curtain call!” the stage manager cried, wrenching them apart as the curtain began to open again. Everybody took their places, bowing to the audience, when all of a sudden Phillip felt Anne tumble backwards. He reached out and caught her, as the crowd gasped in horror. She was panting, gasping for air, her eyes wide with fear. With one hand he supported her back, and the other he used to caress her face, wiping at her tears. He was in shock, and terrified that something awful was happening.

“Anne, Anne?” he called, desperate. She was unable to speak, choking on her own words. “Are you alright?"

Around them people had began to gather, the curtain dropped hastily. Her brother had rushed to the scene, as had Barnum and Lettie. They were all already crying, as though they knew what was looming ahead. “What’s the matter? Darling? Darling, tell me. What’s wrong?” Anne wheezed in reply, her hands trembling as she tried to touch him. There was a speck of blood on the corner of her mouth. “Oh God, oh God. Somebody get help!"

Barnum was the first to react. “Fetch the doctor!” he roared at some poor stagehand next to him.

“I’m . . . I’m sorry,” Anne rasped, every syllable agony for her.

“Shh, shh,” Phillip muttered, not wanting her to be in any more pain. He ran a thumb across her lip, gently, as tears fell from his eyes. “You don’t have to apologise. Please, don’t say anything."

She took his hand in hers, and held it to her chest, her heartbeat faint and weak. “I’m dying,” she told him, her voice cracking. “I . . . should have told you, I - "

“No you’re not,” he interrupted, frowning. He refused to admit what was right in front of him, plain as day. “You’ll be alright. I promise, you’ll be alright. I’m here. I’m going to look after you."

“Phil, I’m cold,” she whispered, though her skin was burning to the touch. Fever. “Hold me. Please . . . hold me."

Not hesitating for a moment, Phillip wrapped his arms around her slender body, which was shaking like a leaf. He planted kiss upon kiss on her cheek and neck. “You’re okay. I’ve got you."

“You’ve got to go on, Phil,” she said, quietly. “Without me."

Pulling back slightly so he could see her face, he didn’t want to believe his ears. “I can’t,” he replied, unsteadily. “Anne, I can’t. I love you."

She smiled, a beautiful smile even now, as she brushed her fingertips across his cheek. “Write about us,” she asked. “I want everyone . . . to know about us. About the penniless sitar player and his courtesan."

“No,” he refused, his sobs rising now.

“Yes,” Anne said. It was becoming more and more difficult for her to speak, words coming out as whispers. The blood was beginning to drip now, the colour draining from her face. “Promise me. Promise me."

Kissing her forehead, he nodded, slowly. “I promise."

“That way I’ll always . . . always be with you,” she wheezed out, her eyelids drooping. Phillip watched as her life extinguished in front of him. Holding her close, he sobbed and he sobbed, not wanting to let her go. His heart was breaking all over again. He pulled her onto his lap, her body limp, as he began rocking back and forth. It was a sorry sight, he realised, but he didn’t know what else to do. He remained in that position until he heard the performers shuffle around him, and saw who he presumed to be the doctor try to pull Anne from his grip.

Phillip was ready to fight the doctor, unable to let Anne go, when he felt W. D.’s hand on his shoulder. “Please, Phillip."


	14. The Last Chapter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Phillip finally finishes the last chapter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short but sweet.
> 
> I really hope you all enjoyed this story! I'm thinking _Titanic_ is next! Or should I continue with my _Through Their Eyes_ verse? Let me know what you think.
> 
> Thank you!

_New York, 1900_

Finishing the sentence, Phillip sighed and leant back from his typewriter. That was the chapter he had been fearing to write, the one that filled him with the most dread. The last chapter. It was as though he was reliving that day, all the emotions, all over again. The way he had held onto Anne’s lifeless body, sobbing and begging her not to leave him, was something he wished he could forget. No man should see the woman he loves die, not in his arms.

The feeling he had when he lost Anne behind that curtain was horrific. He was sick to his stomach, his heart was throbbing, and his fingertips were numb. When the doctor had attempted to pull her from him he wanted to scream. She was gone, and it was too late.

Thinking back to those excruciating minutes, where he had watched the doctor try to resuscitate Anne, blood smeared around her lips, brown eyes dull and wide, he continued to type. A lump appeared in his throat, and he was writing out of muscle memory, his fingers moving of their own accord.

_‘The greatest thing you’ll ever learn is just to love, and be loved in return. She died as she lived; on stage, the whole world a spectator. I was glad that for those short months I got to be a spectator. Anne’s love was a gift, a blessing, something I’ll never forget. A love that will live forever. The End.'_

As the last words left his fingertips and were inked onto the paper, Phillip felt surging relief. He hadn’t realised how much weight he had put onto his shoulders to write the story of him and Anne. He’d found a publisher, after sending the first few chapters off to an esteemed agency in the city, and if he could send the full copy away by the end of the month, he was promised that his novel would be on bookshelves by Christmas.

Wiping the sleep from his eyes, he stood up and gazed out the window. The sun was starting to set, the sky a warm orange hue, the colour of pumpkins. When he heard the door behind him click open, he immediately beamed, and swivelled around.

Anne was stood before him, in a simple cornflower coloured dress, her hair loose and wearing an equally wide grin. Breathtaking as ever, she caught his eyes and gave him a warm smile. She was holding what looked like a bundle of blankets, which upon closer inspection Phillip saw was enveloping a happy, little baby. Their baby. Maisie was two months old, and had her father’s bright blue eyes and her mother’s curls.

“I was wondering where my two favourite girls got to,” he said, planting a kiss on each of their foreheads.

Handing the baby over to Phillip, Anne set her bag down and began to pull out her groceries; a loaf of bread, a handful of potatoes, and a single tomato. “Don’t let Caroline and Helen hear you,” she grinned.

Of course, Anne hadn’t died. She had merely fell unconscious, due to lack of air getting to her lungs. The doctor had managed to resuscitate her, and she was whisked away to hospital, where she made a miraculous recovery, surrounded by those that she loved. The pair of them made a deal with Barnum that he was going to release a statement to tell the public she had passed away. That way the Duke wouldn’t come looking for her, and she could quit her life as a courtesan. She married Phillip a month later, after they had found a priest willing to perform the ceremony. It was in a little church near Harlem, and her brother had given her away. Nine months after their wedding night, she gave birth to Maisie.

Their life was everything they could have hoped for, besides the quaint apartment in Paris. However, when both mother and baby were stronger enough, they planned to set sail as soon as they could. Anne’s illness hadn’t shown any signs of reappearing, and she was getting healthier by the day.

Phillip gazed down at Maisie in his arms, the beautiful little girl he still couldn’t believe was real. She hardly ever cried, hardly made a fuss. She would fall asleep in a matter of seconds, if Anne would sing that sweet lullaby and Phillip would rock her gently. Her giggle never ceased to make his heart melt. She looked just like her mother in every way; same nose, same hair, same smile, but she had his eyes. That was something he was glad for, something he was happy to pass on.

“She’s going to be a real heartbreaker when she’s older,” Anne cooed, over his shoulder. Wrapping her arms around his chest and resting her chin on him, the pair were completely enamoured by their daughter, who merely stared back up at them with wonder.

Phillip smiled. “Takes after her mother then,” he teased.

Playfully, Anne nudged him, taking caution of the baby in his arms. “As if her father hasn’t broken a few hearts too!"

He didn’t have to think long about his answer. “Nobody’s ever given me their heart,” he shrugged. “You’re the first, and I don’t intend on breaking it."

Anne softly pressed her lips to his cheek, and he could feel her smiling. “I should hope not,” she muttered against him, then pulled herself backwards. Walking around him, she sat down on the bed, admiring the sight in front of her; her husband and daughter. “I don’t think I’m ever gonna get sick of this view."

Taking a seat beside her, Phillip moved his arm strategically so Anne could stroke the small tuft of curls on Maisie’s head. “I wish I could freeze this moment, right here right now, and just live in it forever,” he told her, genuinely. Leaning her head against him, she hummed in agreement. It truly did sound like heaven.


End file.
